University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  estate  of 
GEORGE  METAXAS 


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arjj 


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ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Vol.  XV 

THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 
ACROSS  THE  PLAINS  t  THE 
SILVERADO  SOUATTERS  Sfe  t 


*THE  TRAVELS  AND 
ESSAYS  OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS   STEVENSON 


THE  AMATEUR  EMI- 
GRANT t  »  ACROSS 
THE  PLAINS  t  THE  SIL- 
VERADO SQUATTERS  % 


tPUBLISHED  IN 
NEW  YORK  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS     «     t      1901     t 


Far  away  were  hilltops   like  little  islands.       '^^j& 
Drawn  by  S.   IV,   J/ AN  sCHAICK. 


^THE  TRAVELS  AND 
ESSAYS  OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS   STEVENSON 


THE  AMATEUR  EMI- 
GRANT %  t  ACROSS 
THE  PLAINS  Sfe  THE  SIL- 
VERADO SQUATTERS  % 


Ife  PUBLISHED  IN 
NEW  YORK  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS     S     SE      1901     S 


Copyright,  1892,  1895,  by 
Charles  Scribnbr's  Sons, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT i 

From  the  Clyde  to  Sandy  Hook 

ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 93 

With  Other  Memories  and  Essays 

THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 311 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

From  tb$  Clyde  to  Sandy  Hook 

PAG8 

THE  SECOND  CABIN i 

EARLY  IMPRESSIONS lo 

STEERAGE  SCENES 20 

STEERAGE  TYPES 29 

THE  SICK   MAN 42 

THE  STOWAWAYS 53 

PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 69 

NEW  YORK 82 


?r) 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

IVITH   OTHER  MEMORIES  AND  ESSAYS 

ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 99 

THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 149 

FONTAINEBLEAU 169 

EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 192 

RANDOM  MEMORIES 209 

RANDOM  MEMORIES  Continued 223 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 235 

A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 250 

BEGGARS 266 

LETTER  TO  A   YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 279 

PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 290 

A   CHRISTMAS  SERMON 299 

THE  SILyERADO  SQUATTERS 

Book  1 

IN  THE  VALLEY 

chapter  page 

1    Calistoga 320 

II  The  Petrified  Forest 325 

III  Napa  Wine 330 

IV  The  Scot  Abroad , 337 

Book  II 

WITH  THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL 

I    To  Introduce  Mr.  Kelmar 342 

II     First  Impressions  of  Silverado 347 

111    The  Return 358 

THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 364 

THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY 374 

THE  SEA   FOGS 385 

THE  TOLL  HOUSE 392 

A  STARRY   DRIVE 398 

EPISODES  IN  THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE 403 

TOILS  AND  PLEASURES 415 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

FROM  THE  CLYDE  TO  SANDY   HOOK 


TO 

ROBERT  ALAN  MOWBRAY  STEVENSON 

Our  friendship  was  not  only  founded  before  we  were 
bom  by  a  community  of  blood,  but  is  in  itself  near 
as  old  as  my  life.  It  began  with  our  early  ages,  and, 
like  a  history,  has  been  continued  to  the  present 
time.  Although  we  may  not  be  old  in  the  world, 
we  are  old  to  each  other,  having  so  long  been  inti- 
mates. We  are  now  widely  separated,  a  great  sea 
and  continent  intervening ;  but  memory,  like  care, 
mounts  into  iron  ships  and  rides  post  behind  the 
horseman.  Neither  time  nor  space  nor  enmity  can 
conquer  old  affection  ;  and  as  I  dedicate  these 
sketches,  it  is  not  to  you  only,  but  to  all  in  the  old 
country,  that  I  send  the  greeting  of  my  heart. 

R.  L.  S. 
1879. 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 


THE  SECOND  CABIN 

1  FIRST  encountered  my  fellow-passengers  on  the 
Broomielaw  in  Glasgow.  Thence  we  descended 
the  Clyde  in  no  familiar  spirit,  but  looking  askance  on 
each  other  as  on  possible  enemies.  A  few  Scandina- 
vians, who  had  already  grown  acquainted  on  the  North 
Sea,  were  friendly  and  voluble  over  their  long  pipes ;  but 
among  English  speakers  distance  and  suspicion  reigned 
supreme.  The  sun  was  soon  overclouded,  the  wind 
freshened  and  grew  sharp  as  we  continued  to  descend 
the  widening  estuary ;  and  with  the  falling  temperature 
the  gloom  among  the  passengers  increased.  Two  of 
the  women  wept.  Any  one  who  had  come  aboard 
might  have  supposed  we  were  all  absconding  from  the 
law.  There  was  scarce  a  word  interchanged,  and  no 
common  sentiment  but  that  of  cold  united  us,  until  at 
length,  having  touched  at  Greenock,  a  pointing  arm  and 
a  rush  to  the  starboard  now  announced  that  our  ocean 
steamer  was  in  sight.  There  she  lay  in  mid-river,  at  the 
tail  of  the  Bank,  her  sea-signal  flying :  a  wall  of  bulwark, 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

a  Street  of  white  deck-houses,  an  aspiring  forest  of  spars, 
larger  than  a  church,  and  soon  to  be  as  populous  as 
many  an  incorporated  town  in  the  land  to  which  she 
was  to  bear  us. 

1  was  not,  in  truth,  a  steerage  passenger.  Although 
anxious  to  see  the  worst  of  emigrant  life,  I  had  some 
work  to  finish  on  the  voyage,  and  was  advised  to  go 
by  the  second  cabin,  where  at  least  I  should  have  a  table 
at  command.  The  advice  was  excellent;  but  to  under- 
stand the  choice,  and  what  I  gained,  some  outline  of  the 
internal  disposition  of  the  ship  will  first  be  necessary. 
In  her  very  nose  is  Steerage  No.  i,  down  two  pair  of 
stairs.  A  little  abaft,  another  companion,  labelled  Steer- 
age No.  2  and  3,  gives  admission  to  three  galleries,  two 
running  forward  towards  Steerage  No.  i,  and  the  third 
aft  towards  the  engines.  The  starboard  forward  gallery 
is  the  second  cabin.  Away  abaft  the  engines  and  below 
the  officers'  cabins,  to  complete  our  survey  of  the  vessel, 
there  is  yet  a  third  nest  of  steerages,  labelled  4  and  5. 
The  second  cabin,  to  return,  is  thus  a  modified  oasis  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  steerages.  Through  the  thin  par- 
tition you  can  hear  the  steerage  passengers  being  sick, 
the  rattle  of  tin  dishes  as  they  sit  at  meals,  the  varied 
accents  in  which  they  converse,  the  crying  of  their  chil- 
dren terrified  by  this  new  experience,  or  the  clean  flat 
smack  of  the  parental  hand  in  chastisement. 

There  are,  however,  many  advantages  for  the  inhabi- 
tant of  this  strip.  He  does  not  require  to  bring  his  own 
bedding  or  dishes,  but  finds  berths  and  a  table  com- 
pletely if  somewhat  roughly  furnished.  He  enjoys  a 
distinct  superiority  in  diet ;  but  this,  strange  to  say,  dif- 
fers not  only  on  different  ships,  but  on  the  same  ship 


THE  SECOND  CABIN 

according  as  her  head  is  to  the  east  or  west.  In  my 
own  experience,  the  principal  difference  between  our 
table  and  that  of  the  true  steerage  passenger  was  the 
table  itself,  and  the  crockery  plates  from  which  we  ate. 
But  lest  I  should  show  myself  ungrateful,  let  me  recapit- 
ulate every  advantage.  At  breakfast,  we  had  a  choice 
between  tea  and  coffee  for  beverage ;  a  choice  not  easy 
to  make,  the  two  were  so  surprisingly  alike.  I  found 
that  I  could  sleep  after  the  coffee  and  lay  awake  after 
the  tea,  which  is  proof  conclusive  of  some  chemical  dis- 
parity; and  even  by  the  palate  I  could  distinguish  a 
smack  of  snuff  in  the  former  from  a  flavour  of  boiling 
and  dish-cloths  in  the  second.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have 
seen  passengers,  after  many  sips,  still  doubting  which 
had  been  supplied  them.  In  the  way  of  eatables  at  the 
same  meal  we  were  gloriously  favoured ;  for  in  addition 
to  porridge,  which  was  common  to  all,  we  had  Irish 
stew,  sometimes  a  bit  of  fish,  and  sometimes  rissoles. 
The  dinner  of  soup,  roast  fresh  beef,  boiled  salt  junk,  and 
potatoes,  was,  I  believe,  exactly  common  to  the  steerage 
and  the  second  cabin ;  only  I  have  heard  it  rumoured  that 
our  potatoes  were  of  a  superior  brand;  and  twice  a 
week,  on  pudding-days,  instead  of  duff,  we  had  a  saddle- 
bag filled  with  currants  under  the  name  of  a  plum-pud- 
ding. At  tea  we  were  served  with  some  broken  meat 
from  the  saloon ;  sometimes  in  the  comparatively  elegant 
form  of  spare  patties  or  rissoles ;  but  as  a  general  thing, 
mere  chicken-bones  and  flakes  of  fish,  neither  hot  nor 
cold.  If  these  were  not  the  scrapings  of  plates  their 
looks  belied  them  sorely ;  yet  we  were  all  too  hungry  to 
be  proud,  and  fell  to  these  leavings  greedily.  These,  the 
bread,  which  was  excellent,  and  the  soup  and  porridge 

3 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

which  were  both  good,  formed  my  whole  diet  through- 
out the  voyage ;  so  that  except  for  the  broken  meat  and 
the  convenience  of  a  table  I  might  as  well  have  been  in 
the  steerage  outright  Had  they  given  me  porridge  again 
in  the  evening,  I  should  have  been  perfectly  contented 
with  the  fare.  As  it  was,  with  a  few  biscuits  and  some 
whisky  and  water  before  turning  in,  I  kept  my  body 
going  and  my  spirits  up  to  the  mark. 

The  last  particular  in  which  the  second  cabin  passen- 
ger remarkably  stands  ahead  of  his  brother  of  the  steer- 
age is  one  altogether  of  sentiment.  In  the  steerage  there 
are  males  and  females ;  in  the  second  cabin  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  For  some  time  after  I  came  aboard  I  thought 
I  was  only  a  male ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery between  decks,  I  came  on  a  brass  plate,  and 
learned  that  I  was  still  a  gentleman.  Nobody  knew  it, 
of  course.  I  was  lost  in  the  crowd  of  males  and  females, 
and  rigorously  confined  to  the  same  quarter  of  the  deck. 
Who  could  tell  whether  I  housed  on  the  port  or  star- 
board side  of  steerage  No.  2  and  3  ?  And  it  was  only 
there  that  my  superiority  became  practical ;  everywhere 
else  I  was  incognito,  moving  among  my  inferiors  with 
simplicity,  not  so  much  as  a  swagger  to  indicate  that  I 
was  a  gentleman  after  all,  and  had  broken  meat  to  tea. 
Still,  I  was  like  one  with  a  patent  of  nobility  in  a  drawer 
at  home;  and  when  1  felt  out  of  spirits  I  could  go  down 
and  refresh  myself  with  a  look  of  that  brass  plate. 

For  all  these  advantages  I  paid  but  two  guineas.  Six 
guineas  is  the  steerage  fare ;  eight  that  by  the  second 
cabin ;  and  when  you  remember  that  the  steerage  pas- 
senger must  supply  bedding  and  dishes,  and,  in  five 
cases  out  of  ten,  either  brings  some  dainties  with  him, 

4 


THE  SECOND   CABIN 

or  privately  pays  the  steward  for  extra  rations,  the  dif- 
ference in  price  becomes  almost  nominal.  Air  compar- 
atively fit  to  breathe,  food  comparatively  varied,  and  the 
satisfaction  of  being  still  privately  a  gentleman,  may  thus 
be  had  almost  for  the  asking.  Two  of  my  fellow-pas- 
sengers in  the  second  cabin  had  already  made  the  passage 
by  the  cheaper  fare,  and  declared  it  was  an  experiment 
not  to  be  repeated.  As  I  go  on  to  tell  about  my  steerage 
friends,  the  reader  will  perceive  that  they  were  not  alone 
in  their  opinion.  Out  of  ten  with  whom  I  was  more  or 
less  intimate,  I  am  sure  not  fewer  than  five  vowed,  if 
they  returned,  to  travel  second  cabin ;  and  all  who  had 
left  their  wives  behind  them  assured  me  they  would  go 
without  the  comfort  of  their  presence  until  they  could 
afford  to  bring  them  by  saloon. 

Our  party  in  the  second  cabin  was  not  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  on  board.  Perhaps  even  in  the  saloon 
there  was  as  much  good-will  and  character.  Yet  it  had 
some  elements  of  curiosity.  There  was  a  mixed  group 
of  Swedes,  Danes,  and  Norsemen,  one  of  whom,  gen- 
erally known  by  the  name  of  ''Johnny,"  in  spite  of  his 
own  protests,  greatly  diverted  us  by  his  clever,  cross- 
country efforts  to  speak  English,  and  became  on  the 
strength  of  that  an  universal  favourite  —  it  takes  so  little 
in  this  world  of  shipboard  to  create  a  popularity.  There 
was,  besides,  a  Scots  mason,  known  from  his  favourite 
dish  as  '*  Irish  Stew,"  three  or  four  nondescript  Scots,  a 
fine  young  Irishman,  O'Reilly,  and  a  pair  of  young  men 
who  deserve  a  special  word  of  condemnation.  One  of 
them  was  Scots;  the  other  claimed  to  be  American;  ad- 
mitted, after  some  fencing,  that  he  was  born  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  ultimately  proved  to  be  an  Irishman  born  and 

5 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

nurtured,  but  ashamed  to  own  his  country.  He  had  a 
sister  on  board,  whom  he  faithfully  neglected  through- 
out the  voyage,  though  she  was  not  only  sick,  but  much 
his  senior,  and  had  nursed  and  cared  for  him  in  child- 
hood. In  appearance  he  was  like  an  imbecile  Henry 
the  Third  of  France.  The  Scotsman,  though  perhaps  as 
big  an  ass,  was  not  so  dead  of  heart;  and  I  have  only 
bracketed  them  together  because  they  were  fast  friends, 
and  disgraced  themselves  equally  by  their  conduct  at  the 
table. 

Next,  to  turn  to  topics  more  agreeable,  we  had  a  newly 
married  couple,  devoted  to  each  other,  with  a  pleasant 
story  of  how  they  had  first  seen  each  other  years  ago  at 
a  preparatory  school,  and  that  very  afternoon  he  had 
carried  her  books  home  for  her.  I  do  not  know  if  this 
story  will  be  plain  to  Southern  readers;  but  to  me  it  re- 
calls many  a  school  idyll,  with  wrathful  swains  of  eight 
and  nine  confronting  each  other  stride-legs,  flushed 
with  jealousy ;  for  to  carry  home  a  young  lady's  books 
was  both  a  delicate  attention  and  a  privilege. 

Then  there  was  an  old  lady,  or  indeed  I  am  not  sure 
that  she  was  as  much  old  as  antiquated  and  strangely  out 
of  place,  who  had  left  her  husband,  and  was  travelling  all 
the  way  to  Kansas  by  herself.  We  had  to  take  her  own 
word  that  she  was  married ;  for  it  was  sorely  contradicted 
by  the  testimony  of  her  appearance.  Nature  seemed  to 
have  sanctified  her  for  the  single  state ;  even  the  colour 
of  her  hair  was  incompatible  with  matrimony,  and  her 
husband,  I  thought,  should  be  a  man  of  saintly  spirit 
and  phantasmal  bodily  presence.  She  was  ill,  poor 
thing ;  her  soul  turned  from  the  viands ;  the  dirty  table- 
cloth shocked  her  like  an  impropriety ;  and  the  whole 

6 


THE  SECOND  CABIN 

Strength  of  her  endeavour  was  bent  upon  keeping  her 
watch  true  to  Glasgow  time  till  she  should  reach  New 
York.  They  had  heard  reports,  her  husband  and  she, 
of  some  unwarrantable  disparity  of  hours  between  these 
two  cities;  and  with  a  spirit  commendably  scientific, 
had  seized  on  this  occasion  to  put  them  to  the  proof.  It 
was  a  good  thing  for  the  old  lady ;  for  she  passed  much 
leisure  time  in  studying  the  watch.  Once,  when  pros- 
trated by  sickness,  she  let  it  run  down.  It  was  in- 
scribed on  her  harmless  mind  in  letters  of  adamant  that 
the  hands  of  a  watch  must  never  be  turned  backwards ; 
and  so  it  behoved  her  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  exact  moment 
ere  she  started  it  again.  When  she  imagined  this  was 
about  due,  she  sought  out  one  of  the  young  second- 
cabin  Scotsmen,  who  was  embarked  on  the  same  experi- 
ment as  herself  and  had  hitherto  been  less  neglectful. 
She  was  in  quest  of  two  o'clock;  and  when  she  learned 
it  was  already  seven  on  the  shores  of  Clyde,  she  lifted  up 
her  voice  and  cried  "  Gravy ! "  I  had  not  heard  this  in- 
nocent expletive  since  I  was  a  young  child ;  and  I  sup- 
pose it  must  have  been  the  same  with  the  other  Scotsmen 
present,  for  we  all  laughed  our  fill. 

Last  but  not  least,  I  come  to  my  excellent  friend  Mr. 
Jones.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  I  was  his 
right-hand  man,  or  he  mine,  during  the  voyage.  Thus 
at  table  I  carved,  while  he  only  scooped  gravy ;  but  at 
our  concerts,  of  which  more  anon,  he  was  the  president 
who  called  up  performers  to  sing,  and  I  but  his  mes- 
senger who  ran  his  errands  and  pleaded  privately  with 
the  over-modest.  I  knew  I  liked  Mr.  Jones  from  the 
moment  I  saw  him.  I  thought  him  by  his  face  to  be 
Scottish;  nor  could  his  accent  undeceive  me.     For  as 

7 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

there  is  a  lingua  franca  of  many  tongues  on  the  moles 
and  in  the  feluccas  of  the  Mediterranean,  so  there  is  a 
free  or  common  accent  among  English-speaking  men 
who  follow  the  sea.  They  catch  a  twang  in  a  New 
England  port;  from  a  cockney  skipper,  even  a  Scots- 
man sometimes  learns  to  drop  an  /j;  a  word  of  a  dialect 
is  picked  up  from  another  hand  in  the  forecastle ;  until 
often  the  result  is  undecipherable,  and  you  have  to  ask 
for  the  man's  place  of  birth.  So  it  was  with  Mr.  Jones. 
I  thought  him  a  Scotsman  who  had  been  long  to  sea ; 
and  yet  he  was  from  Wales,  and  had  been  most  of  his 
life  a  blacksmith  at  an  inland  forge;  a  few  years  in 
America  and  half  a  score  of  ocean  voyages  having  suf- 
ficed to  modify  his  speech  into  the  common  pattern. 
By  his  own  account  he  was  both  strong  and  skilful  in 
his  trade.  A  few  years  back,  he  had  been  married  and 
after  a  fashion  a  rich  man ;  now  the  wife  was  dead  and 
the  money  gone.  But  his  was  the  nature  that  looks 
forward,  and  goes  on  from  one  year  to  another  and 
through  all  the  extremities  of  fortune  undismayed;  and 
if  the  sky  were  to  fall  to-morrow,  I  should  look  to  see 
Jones,  the  day  following,  perched  on  a  step-ladder  and 
getting  things  to  rights.  He  was  always  hovering 
round  inventions  like  a  bee  over  a  flower,  and  lived  in 
a  dream  of  patents.  He  had  with  him  a  patent  medi- 
cine, for  instance,  the  composition  of  which  he  had 
bought  years  ago  for  five  dollars  from  an  American 
peddler,  and  sold  the  other  day  for  a  hundred  pounds 
(I  think  it  was)  to  an  English  apothecary.  It  was  called 
Golden  Oil,  cured  all  maladies  without  exception ;  and 
1  am  bound  to  say  that  1  partook  of  it  myself  with  good 
results.     It  is  a  character  of  the  man  that  he  was  not 

8 


THE  SECOND   CABIN 

only  perpetually  dosing  himself  with  Golden  Oil,  but 
wherever  there  was  a  head  aching  or  a  finger  cut,  there 
would  be  Jones  with  his  bottle. 

If  he  had  one  taste  more  strongly  than  another,  it  was 
to  study  character.  Many  an  hour  have  we  two  walked 
upon  the  deck  dissecting  our  neighbours  in  a  spirit  that 
was  too  purely  scientific  to  be  called  unkind ;  whenever 
a  quaint  or  human  trait  slipped  out  in  conversation,  you 
might  have  seen  Jones  and  me  exchanging  glances ;  and 
we  could  hardly  go  to  bed  in  comfort  till  we  had  ex- 
changed notes  and  discussed  the  day's  experience.  We 
were  then  like  a  couple  of  anglers  comparing  a  day's 
kill.  But  the  fish  we  angled  for  were  of  a  metaphysical 
species,  and  we  angled  as  often  as  not  in  one  another's 
baskets.  Once,  in  the  midst  of  a  serious  talk,  each 
found  there  was  a  scrutinising  eye  upon  himself;  I  own 
I  paused  in  embarrassment  at  this  double  detection ;  but 
Jones,  with  a  better  civility,  broke  into  a  peal  of  unaf- 
fected laughter,  and  declared,  what  was  the  truth,  that 
there  was  a  pair  of  us  indeed. 


EARLY  IMPRESSIONS 

We  steamed  out  of  the  Clyde  on  Thursday  night,  and 
early  on  the  Friday  forenoon  we  took  in  our  last  batch 
of  emigrants  at  Lough  Foyle,  in  Ireland,  and  said  fare- 
well to  Europe.  The  company  was  now  complete,  and 
began  to  draw  together,  by  inscrutable  magnetisms, 
upon  the  decks.  There  were  Scots  and  Irish  in  plenty, 
a  few  English,  a  few  Americans,  a  good  handful  of  Scan- 
dinavians, a  German  or  two,  and  one  Russian ;  all  now 
belonging  for  ten  days  to  one  small  iron  country  on  the 
deep. 

As  I  walked  the  deck  and  looked  round  upon  my  fel- 
low-passengers, thus  curiously  assorted  from  all  north- 
ern Europe,  I  began  for  the  first  time  to  understand  the 
nature  of  emigration.  Day  by  day  throughout  the  pas- 
sage, and  thenceforward  across  all  the  States,  and  on  to 
the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  this  knowledge  grew  more  clear 
and  melancholy.  Emigration,  from  a  word  of  the  most 
cheerful  import,  came  to  sound  most  dismally  in  my  ear. 
There  is  nothing  more  agreeable  to  picture  and  nothing 
more  pathetic  to  behold.  The  abstract  idea,  as  con- 
ceived at  home,  is  hopeful  and  adventurous.  A  young 
man,  you  fancy,  scorning  restraints  and  helpers,  issues 
forth  into  life,  that  great  battle,  to  fight  for  his  own  hand. 

lO 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS 

The  most  pleasant  stories  of  ambition,  of  difficulties 
overcome,  and  of  ultimate  success,  are  but  as  episodes 
to  this  great  epic  of  self-help.  The  epic  is  composed 
of  individual  heroisms ;  it  stands  to  them  as  the  victori- 
ous war  which  subdued  an  empire  stands  to  the  personal 
act  of  bravery  which  spiked  a  single  cannon  and  was 
adequately  rewarded  with  a  medal.  For  in  emigration 
the  young  men  enter  direct  and  by  the  shipload  on  their 
heritage  of  work;  empty  continents  swarm,  as  at  the 
bo'sun's  whistle,  with  industrious  hands,  and  whole 
new  empires  are  domesticated  to  the  service  of  man. 

This  is  the  closet  picture,  and  is  found,  on  trial,  to 
consist  mostly  of  embellishments.  The  more  I  saw  of 
my  fellow-passengers,  the  less  I  was  tempted  to  the  lyric 
note.  Comparatively  few  of  the  men  were  below  thirty ; 
many  were  married,  and  encumbered  with  families ;  not 
a  few  were  already  up  in  years ;  and  this  itself  was  out 
of  tune  with  my  imaginations,  for  the  ideal  emigrant 
should  certainly  be  young.  Again,  I  thought  he  should 
offer  to  the  eye  some  bold  type  of  humanity,  with  bluff 
or  hawk-like  features,  and  the  stamp  of  an  eager  and 
pushing  disposition.  Now  those  around  me  were  for 
the  most  part  quiet,  orderly,  obedient  citizens,  family 
men  broken  by  adversity,  elderly  youths  who  had  failed 
to  place  themselves  in  life,  and  people  who  had  seen 
better  days.  Mildness  was  the  prevailing  character; 
mild  mirth  and  mild  endurance.  In  a  word,  I  was  not 
taking  part  in  an  impetuous  and  conquering  sally,  such 
as  swept  over  Mexico  or  Siberia,  but  found  myself,  like 
Marmion,  ' '  in  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying. " 

Labouring  mankind  had  in  the  last  years,  and  through- 
out Great  Britain,  sustained  a  prolonged  and  crushing 

II 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

series  of  defeats.  I  had  heard  vaguely  of  these  reverses ; 
of  whole  streets  of  houses  standing  deserted  by  the 
Ty ne,  the  cellar-doors  broken  and  removed  for  firewood ; 
of  homeless  men  loitering  at  the  street-corners  of  Glas- 
gow with  their  chests  beside  them ;  of  closed  factories, 
useless  strikes,  and  starving  girls.  But  I  had  never 
taken  them  home  to  me  or  represented  these  distresses 
livingly  to  my  imagination.  A  turn  of  the  market  may 
be  a  calamity  as  disastrous  as  the  French  retreat  from 
Moscow;  but  it  hardly  lends  itself  to  lively  treatment, 
and  makes  a  trifling  figure  in  the  morning  papers.  We 
may  struggle  as  we  please,  we  are  not  born  economists. 
The  individual  is  more  affecting  than  the  mass.  It  is  by 
the  scenic  accidents,  and  the  appeal  to  the  carnal  eye, 
that  for  the  most  part  we  grasp  the  significance  of  trage- 
dies. Thus  it  was  only  now,  when  I  found  myself  in- 
volved in  the  rout,  that  I  began  to  appreciate  how  sharp 
had  been  the  battle.  We  were  a  company  of  the  re- 
jected; the  drunken,  the  incompetent,  the  weak,  the 
prodigal,  all  who  had  been  unable  to  prevail  against  cir- 
cumstances in  the  one  land,  were  now  fleeing  pitifully 
to  another;  and  though  one  or  two  might  still  succeed, 
all  had  already  failed.  We  were  a  shipful  of  failures,  the 
broken  men  of  England.  Yet  it  must  not  be  supposed 
that  these  people  exhibited  depression.  The  scene,  on 
the  contrary,  was  cheerful.  Not  a  tear  was  shed  on 
board  the  vessel.  All  were  full  of  hope  for  the  future, 
and  showed  an  inclination  to  innocent  gaiety.  Some 
were  heard  to  sing,  and  all  began  to  scrape  acquaintance 
with  small  jests  and  ready  laughter. 

The  children  found  each  other  out  like  dogs,  and  ran 
about  the  decks  scraping  acquaintance  after  their  fash- 

12 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS 

ion  also.  '  *  What  do  you  call  your  mither  ?  "  I  heard  one 
ask.  "Mawmaw,"  was  the  reply,  indicating,  I  fancy, 
a  shade  of  difference  in  the  social  scale.  When  peo- 
ple pass  each  other  on  the  high  seas  of  life  at  so  early  an 
age,  the  contact  is  but  slight,  and  the  relation  more 
like  what  we  may  imagine  to  be  the  friendship  of  flies 
than  that  of  men ;  it  is  so  quickly  joined,  so  easily  dis- 
solved, so  open  in  its  communications  and  so  devoid  of 
deeper  human  qualities.  The  children,  I  observed,  were 
all  in  a  band,  and  as  thick  as  thieves  at  a  fair,  while  their 
elders  were  still  ceremoniously  manoeuvring  on  the  out- 
skirts of  acquaintance.  The  sea,  the  ship,  and  the  sea- 
men were  soon  as  familiar  as  home  to  these  half-con- 
scious little  ones.  It  was  odd  to  hear  them,  throughout 
the  voyage,  employ  shore  words  to  designate  portions 
of  the  vessel.  "  Go'  'way  doon  to  yon  dyke,"  I  heard 
one  say,  probably  meaning  the  bulwark.  I  often  had 
my  heart  in  my  mouth,  watching  them  climb  into  the 
shrouds  or  on  the  rails,  while  the  ship  went  swinging 
through  the  waves ;  and  I  admired  and  envied  the  cour- 
age of  their  mothers,  who  sat  by  in  the  sun  and  looked 
on  with  composure  at  these  perilous  feats.  *'  He  '11 
maybe  be  a  sailor,"  I  heard  one  remark;  '*  now  's  the 
time  to  learn."  I  had  been  on  the  point  of  running  for- 
ward to  interfere,  but  stood  back  at  that,  reproved. 
Very  few  in  the  more  delicate  classes  have  the  nerve  to 
look  upon  the  peril  of  one  dear  to  them ;  but  the  life  of 
poorer  folk,  where  necessity  is  so  much  more  immediate 
and  imperious,  braces  even  a  mother  to  this  extreme  of 
endurance.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  that  the 
lad  should  break  his  neck  than  that  you  should  break  his 
spirit. 

13 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

And  since  I  am  here  on  the  chapter  of  the  children,  I 
must  mention  one  little  fellow,  whose  family  belonged 
to  Steerage  [No.  4  and  5,  and  who,  wherever  he  went, 
was  like  a  strain  of  music  round  the  ship.  He  was  an 
ugly,  merry,  unbreeched  child  of  three,  his  lint-white 
hair  in  a  tangle,  his  face  smeared  with  suet  and  treacle ; 
but  he  ran  to  and  fro  with  so  natural  a  step,  and  fell  and 
picked  himself  up  again  with  such  grace  and  good- 
humour,  that  he  might  fairly  be  called  beautiful  when  he 
was  in  motion.  To  meet  him,  crowing  with  laughter 
and  beating  an  accompaniment  to  his  own  mirth  with 
a  tin  spoon  upon  a  tin  cup,  was  to  meet  a  little  triumph 
of  the  human  species.  Even  when  his  mother  and  the 
rest  of  his  family  lay  sick  and  prostrate  around  him,  he 
sat  upright  in  their  midst  and  sang  aloud  in  the  pleasant 
heartlessness  of  infancy. 

Throughout  the  Friday,  intimacy  among  us  men  made 
but  a  few  advances.  We  discussed  the  probable  dura- 
tion of  the  voyage,  we  exchanged  pieces  of  information, 
naming  our  trades,  what  we  hoped  to  find  in  the  new 
world,  or  what  we  were  fleeing  from  in  the  old ;  and, 
above  all,  we  condoled  together  over  the  food  and  the 
vileness  of  the  steerage.  One  or  two  had  been  so  near 
famine  that  you  may  say  they  had  run  into  the  ship  with 
the  devil  at  their  heels ;  and  to  these  all  seemed  for  the 
best  in  the  best  of  possible  steamers.  But  the  majority 
were  hugely  discontented.  Coming  as  they  did  frorn  a 
country  in  so  low  a  state  as  Great  Britain,  many  of  them 
from  Glasgow,  which  commercially  speaking  was  as 
good  as  dead,  and  many  having  long  been  out  of  work, 
I  was  surprised  to  find  them  so  dainty  in  their  notions. 
I  myself  lived  almost  exclusively  on  bread,  porridge, 

M 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS   ' 

and  soup,  precisely  as  it  was  supplied  to  them,  and 
found  it,  if  not  luxurious,  at  least  sufficient.  But  these 
working  men  were  loud  in  their  outcries.  It  was  not 
''food  for  human  beings,"  it  was  ''only  fit  for  pigs,"  it 
was  "a  disgrace."  Many  of  them  lived  almost  entirely 
upon  biscuit,  others  on  their  own  private  supplies,  and 
some  paid  extra  for  better  rations  from  the  ship.  This 
marvellously  changed  my  notion  of  the  degree  of  luxury 
habitual  to  the  artisan.  I  was  prepared  to  hear  him 
grumble,  for  grumbling  is  the  traveller's  pastime ;  but  I 
was  not  prepared  to  find  him  turn  away  from  a  diet 
which  was  palatable  to  myself  Words  I  should  have 
disregarded,  or  taken  with  a  liberal  allowance ;  but  when 
a  man  prefers  dry  biscuit  there  can  be  no  question  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  disgust. 

With  one  of  their  complaints  I  could  most  heartily 
sympathise.  A  single  night  of  the  steerage  had  filled 
them  with  horror.  I  had  myself  suffered,  even  in  my 
decent  second-cabin  berth,  from  the  lack  of  air;  and  as 
the  night  promised  to  be  fine  and  quiet,  I  determined  to 
sleep  on  deck,  and  advised  all  who  complained  of  their 
quarters  to  follow  my  example.  I  daresay  a  dozen  of 
others  agreed  to  do  so,  and  I  thought  we  should  have 
been  quite  a  party.  Yet,  when  I  brought  up  my  rug 
about  seven  bells,  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  but  the 
watch.  That  chimerical  terror  of  good  night-air,  which 
makes  men  close  their  windows,  list  their  doors,  and 
seal  themselves  up  with  their  own  poisonous  exhala- 
tions, had  sent  all  these  healthy  workmen  down  below. 
One  would  think  we  had  been  brought  up  in  a  fever 
country;  yet  in  England  the  most  malarious  districts 
are  in  the  bedchambers. 

»5 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

I  felt  saddened  at  this  defection,  and  yet  half-pleased 
to  have  the  night  so  quietly  to  myself.  The  wind  had 
hauled  a  little  ahead  on  the  starboard  bow,  and  was  dry 
but  chilly.  I  found  a  shelter  near  the  fire-hole,  and  made 
myself  snug  for  the  night.  The  ship  moved  over  the 
uneven  sea  with  a  gentle  and  cradling  movement. 
The  ponderous,  organic  labours  of  the  engine  in  her 
bowels  occupied  the  mind,  and  prepared  it  for  slumber. 
From  time  to  time  a  heavier  lurch  would  disturb  me  as 
I  lay,  and  recall  me  to  the  obscure  borders  of  conscious- 
ness ;  or  I  heard,  as  it  were  through  a  veil,  the  clear  note 
of  the  clapper  on  the  brass  and  the  beautiful  sea-cry, 
"All's  well! "  I  know  nothing,  whether  for  poetry  or 
music,  that  can  surpass  the  effect  of  these  two  syllables 
in  the  darkness  of  a  night  at  sea. 

The  day  dawned  fairly  enough,  and  during  the  early 
part  we  had  some  pleasant  hours  to  improve  acquaint- 
ance in  the  open  air;  but  towards  nightfall  the  wind 
freshened,  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  sea  rose  so  high 
that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  one's  footing  on  the  deck. 
I  have  spoken  of  our  concerts.  We  were  indeed  a  mu- 
sical ship's  company,  and  cheered  our  way  into  exile 
with  the  fiddle,  the  accordion,  and  the  songs  of  all  na- 
tions. Good,  bad,  or  indifferent  —  Scottish,  English, 
Irish,  Russian,  German  or  Norse, —  the  songs  were  re- 
ceived with  generous  applause.  Once  or  twice,  a  reci- 
tation, very  spiritedly  rendered  in  a  powerful  Scottish 
accent,  varied  the  proceedings ;  and  once  we  sought  in 
vain  to  dance  a  quadrille,  eight  men  of  us  together,  to 
the  music  of  the  violin.  The  performers  were  all  humor- 
ous, frisky  fellows,  who  loved  to  cut  capers  in  private 
life ;  but  as  soon  as  they  were  arranged  for  the  dance, 

i6 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS 

they  conducted  themselves  like  so  many  mutes  at  a 
funeral.  I  have  never  seen  decorum  pushed  so  far;  and 
as  this  was  not  expected,  the  quadrille  was  soon  whistled 
down,  and  the  dancers  departed  under  a  cloud.  Eight 
Frenchmen,  even  eight  Englishmen  from  another  rank 
of  society,  would  have  dared  to  make  some  fun  for 
themselves  and  the  spectators;  but  the  working  man, 
when  sober,  takes  an  extreme  and  even  melancholy 
view  of  personal  deportment.  A  fifth-form  schoolboy 
is  not  more  careful  of  dignity.  He  dares  not  be  com- 
ical; his  fun  must  escape  from  him  unprepared,  and 
above  all,  it  must  be  unaccompanied  by  any  physical 
demonstration.  I  like  his  society  under  most  circum- 
stances, but  let  me  never  again  join  with  him  in  public 
gambols. 

But  the  impulse  to  sing  was  strong,  and  triumphed 
over  modesty  and  even  the  inclemencies  of  sea  and  sky. 
On  this  rough  Saturday  night,  we  got  together  by  the 
main  deck-house,  in  a  place  sheltered  from  the  wind 
and  rain.  Some  clinging  to  a  ladder  which  led  to  the 
hurricane  deck,  and  the  rest  knitting  arms  or  taking 
hands,  we  made  a  ring  to  support  the  women  in  the 
violent  lurching  of  the  ship ;  and  when  we  were  thus 
disposed,  sang  to  our  hearts'  content.  Some  of  the 
songs  were  appropriate  to  the  scene ;  others  strikingly  the 
reverse.  Bastard  doggrel  of  the  music-hall,  such  as, 
**  Around  her  splendid  form,  I  weaved  the  magic  circle," 
sounded  bald,  bleak,  and  pitifully  silly.  '*We  don't 
want  to  fight,  but,  by  Jingo,  if  we  do,"  was  in  some 
measure  saved  by  the  vigour  and  unanimity  with  which 
the  chorus  was  thrown  forth  into  the  night.  I  observed 
a  Platt-Deutsch  mason,  entirely  innocent  of  English, 

17 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

adding  heartily  to  the  general  effect.  And  perhaps  the 
German  mason  is  but  a  fair  example  of  the  sincerity 
with  which  the  song  was  rendered ;  for  nearly  all  with 
whom  I  conversed  upon  the  subject  were  bitterly  op- 
posed to  war,  and  attributed  their  own  misfortunes,  and 
frequently  their  own  taste  for  whisky,  to  the  campaigns 
in  Zululand  and  Afghanistan. 

Every  now  and  again,  however,  some  song  that 
touched  the  pathos  of  our  situation  was  given  forth; 
and  you  could  hear  by  the  voices  that  took  up  the  bur- 
den how  the  sentiment  came  home  to  each.  "The 
Anchor's  Weighed  "  was  true  for  us.  We  were  indeed 
'*  Rocked  on  the  bosom  of  the  stormy  deep."  How 
many  of  us  could  say  with  the  singer,  *'Vm  lonely  to- 
night, love,  without  you,"  or  ''Go,  some  one,  and  tell 
them  from  me,  to  write  me  a  letter  from  home! "  And 
when  was  there  a  more  appropriate  moment  for  ''Auld 
Lang  Syne  "  than  now,  when  the  land,  the  friends,  and 
the  affections  of  that  mingled  but  beloved  time  were 
fading  and  fleeing  behind  us  in  the  vessel's  wake  ?  It 
pointed  forward  to  the  hour  when  these  labours  should 
be  overpast,  to  the  return  voyage,  and  to  many  a  meet- 
ing in  the  sanded  inn,  when  those  who  had  parted  in 
the  spring  of  youth  should  again  drink  a  cup  of  kindness 
in  their  age.  Had  not  Burns  contemplated  emigration, 
I  scarce  believe  he  would  have  found  that  note. 

All  Sunday  the  weather  remained  wild  and  cloudy; 
many  were  prostrated  by  sickness ;  only  five  sat  down 
to  tea  in  the  second  cabin,  and  two  of  these  departed 
abruptly  ere  the  meal  was  at  an  end.  The  Sabbath  was 
observed  strictly  by  the  majority  of  the  emigrants.  I  heard 
an  old  woman  express  her  surprise  that  "the  ship  didna 

i8 


EARLY  IMPRESSIONS 

gae  doon,"  as  she  saw  some  one  pass  her  with  a  chess- 
board on  the  holy  day.  Some  sang  Scottish  psalms. 
Many  went  to  service,  and  in  true  Scottish  fashion  came 
back  ill  pleased  with  their  divine.  *'I  didna  think  he 
was  an  experienced  preacher,"  said  one  girl  to  me. 

It  was  a  bleak,  uncomfortable  day;  but  at  night,  by 
six  bells,  although  the  wind  had  not  yet  moderated,  the 
clouds  were  all  wrecked  and  blown  away  behind  the 
rim  of  the  horizon,  and  the  stars  came  out  thickly  over- 
head. I  saw  Venus  burning  as  steadily  and  sweetly 
across  this  hurly-burly  of  the  winds  and  waters  as  ever 
at  home  upon  the  summer  woods.  The  engine  pounded, 
the  screw  tossed  out  of  the  water  with  a  roar,  and  shook 
the  ship  from  end  to  end ;  the  bows  battled  with  loud 
reports  against  the  billows :  and  as  I  stood  in  the  lee- 
scuppers  and  looked  up  to  where  the  funnel  leaned  out, 
over  my  head,  vomiting  smoke,  and  the  black  and 
monstrous  topsails  blotted,  at  each  lurch,  a  different 
crop  of  stars,  it  seemed  as  if  all  this  trouble  were  a  thing 
of  small  account,  and  that  just  above  the  mast  reigned 
peace  unbroken  and  eternal. 


»9 


STEERAGE     SCENES 

Our  companion  (Steerage  No.  2  and  3)  was  a  favour- 
ite resort.  Down  one  flight  of  stairs  there  was  a  com- 
paratively large  open  space,  the  center  occupied  by  a 
hatchway,  which  made  a  convenient  seat  for  about 
twenty  persons,  while  barrels,  coils  of  rope,  and  the  car- 
penter's bench  afforded  perches  for  perhaps  as  many 
more.  The  canteen,  or  steerage  bar,  was  on  one  side 
of  the  stair;  on  the  other,  a  no  less  attractive  spot,  the 
cabin  of  the  indefatigable  interpreter.  I  have  seen  peo- 
ple packed  into  this  space  like  herrings  in  a  barrel,  and 
many  merry  evenings  prolonged  there  until  five  bells, 
when  the  lights  were  ruthlessly  extinguished  and  all 
must  go  to  roost. 

It  had  been  rumoured  since  Friday  that  there  was 
a  fiddler  aboard,  who  lay  sick  and  unmelodious  in 
Steerage  No.  i ;  and  on  the  Monday  forenoon,  as  I  came 
down  the  companion,  I  was  saluted  by  something  in 
Strathspey  time.  A  white-faced  Orpheus  was  cheerily 
playing  to  an  audience  of  white-faced  women.  It  was 
as  much  as  he  could  do  to  play,  and  some  of  his  hearers 
were  scarce  able  to  sit ;  yet  they  had  crawled  from  their 
bunks  at  the  first  experimental  flourish,  and  found  better 
than  medicine  in  the  music.     Some  of  the  heaviest  heads 

20 


STEERAGE  SCENES 

began  to  nod  in  time,  and  a  degree  of  animation  looked 
from  some  of  the  palest  eyes.  Humanly  speaking,  it  is 
a  more  important  matter  to  play  the  fiddle,  even  badly, 
than  to  write  huge  works  upon  recondite  subjects. 
What  could  Mr.  Darwin  have  done  for  these  sick  wo- 
men ?  But  this  fellow  scraped  away ;  and  the  world 
was  positively  a  better  place  for  all  who  heard  him.  We 
have  yet  to  understand  the  economical  value  of  these 
mere  accomplishments.  I  told  the  fiddler  he  was  a 
happy  man,  carrying  happiness  about  with  him  in  his 
fiddle-case,  and  he  seemed  alive  to  the  fact. 

''  It  is  a  privilege,"  I  said.  He  thought  a  while  upon 
the  word,  turning  it  over  in  his  Scots  head,  and  then  an- 
swered with  conviction,  ''  Yes,  a  privilege." 

That  night  I  was  summoned  by  "  Merrily  danced  the 
Quaker's  wife  "  into  the  companion  of  Steerage  No.  4 
and  5.  This  was,  properly  speaking,  but  a  strip  across 
a  deck-house,  lit  by  a  sickly  lantern  which  swung  to  and 
fro  with  the  motion  of  the  ship.  Through  the  open 
slide-door  we  had  a  glimpse  of  a  grey  night  sea,  with 
patches  of  phosphorescent  foam  flying,  swift  as  birds, 
into  the  wake,  and  the  horizon  rising  and  falling  as  the 
vessel  rolled  to  the  wind.  In  the  center  the  companion 
ladder  plunged  down  sheerly  like  an  open  pit.  Below, 
on  the  first  landing,  and  lighted  by  another  lamp,  lads  and 
lasses  danced,  not  more  than  three  at  a  time  for  lack  of 
space,  in  jigs  and  reels  and  hornpipes.  Above,  on  either 
side,  there  was  a  recess  railed  with  iron,  perhaps  two 
feet  wide  and  four  long,  which  stood  for  orchestra  and 
seats  of  honour.  In  the  one  balcony,  five  slatternly  Irish 
lasses  sat  woven  in  a  comely  group.  In  the  other  was 
posted  Orpheus,  his  body,  which  was  convulsively  in 

21 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

motion,  forming  an  odd  contrast  to  his  somnolent,  im- 
perturbable Scots  face.  His  brother,  a  dark  man  with  a 
vehement,  interested  countenance,  who  made  a  god  of 
the  fiddler,  sat  by  with  open  mouth,  drinking  in  the 
general  admiration  and  throwing  out  remarks  to  kin- 
dle it. 

''That 's  a  bonny  hornpipe  now,"  he  would  say,  *'it  's 
a  great  favourite  with  performers;  they  dance  the  sand 
dance  to  it. "  And  he  expounded  the  sand  dance.  Then 
suddenly,  it  would  be  a  long  ''Hush!"  with  uplifted 
finger  and  glowing,  supplicating  eyes;  "he's  going  to 
play  '  Auld  Robin  Gray  '  on  one  string!  "  And  through- 
out this  excruciating  movement,  —  "On  one  string, 
that's  on  one  string ! "  he  kept  crying.  I  would  have  giv- 
en something  myself  that  it  had  been  on  none;  but  the 
hearers  were  much  awed.  I  called  for  a  tune  or  two, 
and  thus  introduced  myself  to  the  notice  of  the  brother, 
who  directed  his  talk  to  me  for  some  little  while,  keeping, 
I  need  hardly  mention,  true  to  his  topic,  like  the  seamen 
to  the  star.  "  He 's  grand  of  it,"  he  said  confidentially. 
' '  His  master  was  a  music-hall  man. "  Indeed  the  music- 
hall  man  had  left  his  mark,  for  our  fiddler  was  ignorant 
of  many  of  our  best  old  airs ;  ' '  Logie  o'  Buchan, "  for  in- 
stance, he  only  knew  as  a  quick,  jigging  figure  in  a  set 
of  quadrilles,  and  had  never  heard  it  called  by  name. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  brother  was  the  more  interesting 
performer  of  the  two.  I  have  spoken  with  him  after- 
wards repeatedly,  and  found  him  always  the  same  quick, 
fiery  bit  of  a  man,  not  without  brains;  but  he  never 
showed  to  such  advantage  as  when  he  was  thus  squir- 
ing the  fiddler  into  public  note.  There  is  nothing  more 
becoming  than  a  genuine  admiration ;  and  it  shares  this 

22 


STEERAGE  SCENES 

with  love,  that  it  does  not  become  contemptible  al- 
though misplaced. 

The  dancing  was  but  feebly  carried  on.  The  space 
was  almost  impracticably  small ;  and  the  Irish  wenches 
combined  the  extreme  of  bashfulness  about  this  inno- 
cent display  with  a  surprising  impudence  and  roughness 
of  address.  Most  often,  either  the  fiddle  lifted  up  its 
voice  unheeded,  or  only  a  couple  of  lads  would  be  foot- 
ing it  and  snapping  fingers  on  the  landing.  And  such 
was  the  eagerness  of  the  brother  to  display  all  the  ac- 
quirements of  his  idol,  and  such  the  sleepy  indifference 
of  the  performer,  that  the  tune  would  as  often  as  not  be 
changed,  and  the  hornpipe  expire  into  a  ballad  before 
the  dancers  had  cut  half  a  dozen  shuffles. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  the  audience  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  numerous  every  moment;  there 
was  hardly  standing-room  round  the  top  of  the  com- 
panion ;  and  the  strange  instinct  of  the  race  moved  some 
of  the  new-comers  to  close  both  the  doors,  so  that  the 
atmosphere  grew  insupportable.  It  was  a  good  place, 
as  the  saying  is,  to  leave. 

The  wind  hauled  ahead  with  a  head  sea.  By  ten  at 
night  heavy  sprays  were  flying  and  drumming  over  the 
forecastle;  the  companion  of  Steerage  No.  i  had  to  be 
closed,  and  the  door  of  communication  through  the  sec- 
ond cabin  thrown  open.  Either  from  the  convenience 
of  the  opportunity,  or  because  we  had  already  a  number 
of  acquaintances  in  that  part  of  the  ship,  Mr.  Jones  and 
I  paid  it  a  late  visit.  Steerage  No.  i  is  shaped  like  an 
isosceles  triangle,  the  sides  opposite  the  equal  angles 
bulging  outward  with  the  contour  of  the  ship.  It  is 
lined  with  eight  pens  of  sixteen  bunks  apiece,  four  bunks 

23 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

below  and  four  above  on  either  side.  At  night  the  place 
is  lit  with  two  lanterns,  one  to  each  table.  As  the 
steamer  beat  on  her  way  among  the  rough  billows,  the 
light  passed  through  violent  phases  of  change,  and  was 
thrown  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down  with  startling  swift- 
ness. You  were  tempted  to  wonder,  as  you  looked, 
how  so  thin  a  glimmer  could  control  and  disperse  such 
solid  blackness.  When  Jones  and  I  entered  we  found 
a  little  company  of  our  acquaintances  seated  together  at 
the  triangular  foremost  table.  A  more  forlorn  party,  in 
more  dismal  circumstances,  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine. 
The  motion  here  in  the  ship's  nose  was  very  violent; 
the  uproar  of  the  sea  often  overpoweringly  loud.  The 
yellow  flicker  of  the  lantern  spun  round  and  round  and 
tossed  the  shadows  in  masses.  The  air  was  hot,  but 
it  struck  a  chill  from  its  foetor.  From  all  round  in  the 
dark  bunks,  the  scarcely  human  noises  of  the  sick  joined 
into  a  kind  of  farmyard  chorus.  In  the  midst,  these  five 
friends  of  mine  were  keeping  up  what  heart  they  could 
in  company.  Singing  was  their  refuge  from  discomfort- 
able  thoughts  and  sensations.  One  piped,  in  feeble  tones, 
''Oh  why  left  1  my  hame  ?"  which  seemed  a  pertinent 
question  in  the  circumstances.  Another,  from  the  invis- 
ible horrors  of  a  pen  where  he  lay  dog-sick  upon  the 
upper  shelf,  found  courage,  in  a  blink  of  his  sufferings, 
to  give  us  several  verses  of  the  *'  Death  of  Nelson  " ;  and 
it  was  odd  and  eerie  to  hear  the  chorus  breathe  feebly 
from  all  sorts  of  dark  corners,  and  '*this  day  has  done 
his  dooty  "  rise  and  fall  and  be  taken  up  again  in  this 
dim  inferno,  to  an  accompaniment  of  plunging,  hollow- 
sounding  bows  and  the  rattling  spray-showers  over- 
head. 

24 


STEERAGE  SCENES 

All  seemed  unfit  for  conversation ;  a  certain  dizziness 
had  interrupted  the  activity  of  their  minds ;  and  except 
to  sing  they  were  tongue-tied.  There  was  present, 
however,  one  tall,  powerful  fellow  of  doubtful  nation- 
ality, being  neither  quite  Scotsman  nor  altogether  Irish, 
but  of  surprising  clearness  of  conviction  on  the  highest 
problems.  He  had  gone  nearly  beside  himself  on  the 
Sunday,  because  of  a  general  backwardness  to  indorse 
his  definition  of  mind  as  ''a  living,  thinking  substance 
which  cannot  be  felt,  heard,  or  seen  "  —  nor,  I  presume, 
although  he  failed  to  mention  it,  smelt.  Now  he  came 
forward  in  a  pause  with  another  contribution  to  our 
culture. 

''Just  by  way  of  change,"  said  he,  'M'll  ask  you  a 
Scripture  riddle.  There's  profit  in  them  too,"  he  added 
ungrammatically. 

This  was  the  riddle  — 

C  and  P 

Did  agree 

To  cut  down  C  ; 

But  C  and  P 

Could  not  agree 

Without  the  leave  of  G 

All  the  people  cried  to  see 

The  crueltie 

Of  C  and  P. 

Harsh  are  the  words  of  Mercury  after  the  songs  of 
Apollo!  We  were  a  long  while  over  the  problem, 
shaking  our  heads  and  gloomily  wondering  how  a  man 
could  be  such  a  fool;  but  at  length  he  put  us  out  of  sus- 
pense and  divulged  the  fact  that  C  and  P  stood  for 
Caiaphas  and  Pontius  Pilate. 

25 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

I  think  it  must  have  been  the  riddle  that  settled  us ; 
but  the  motion  and  the  close  air  likewise  hurried  our 
departure.  We  had  not  been  gone  long,  we  heard  next 
morning,  ere  two  or  even  three  out  of  the  five  fell  sick. 
We  thought  it  little  wonder  on  the  whole,  for  the  sea 
kept  contrary  all  night.  I  now  made  my  bed  upon  the 
second  cabin  floor,  where,  although  I  ran  the  risk  of 
being  stepped  upon,  I  had  a  free  current  of  air,  more  or 
less  vitiated  indeed,  and  running  only  from  steerage  to 
steerage,  but  at  least  not  stagnant ;  and  from  this  couch, 
as  well  as  the  usual  sounds  of  a  rough  night  at  sea,  the 
hateful  coughing  and  retching  of  the  sick  and  the  sobs 
of  children,  I  heard  a  man  run  wild  with  terror  beseech- 
ing his  friend  for  encouragement.  **The  ship's  going 
down!  "  he  cried  with  a  thrill  of  agony.  *'The  ship's 
going  down ! "  he  repeated,  now  in  a  blank  whisper, 
now  with  his  voice  rising  towards  a  sob ;  and  his  friend 
might  reassure  him,  reason  with  him,  joke  at  him  —  all 
was  in  vain,  and  the  old  cry  came  back,  *'The  ship's 
going  down ! ' '  There  was  something  panicky  and  catch- 
ing in  the  emotion  of  his  tones ;  and  I  saw  in  a  clear  flash 
what  an  involved  and  hideous  tragedy  was  a  disaster  to 
an  emigrant  ship.  If  this  whole  parishful  of  people  came 
no  more  to  land,  into  how  many  houses  would  the  news- 
paper carry  woe,  and  what  a  great  part  of  the  web  of  our 
corporate  human  life  would  be  rent  across  for  ever! 

The  next  morning  when  I  came  on  deck  I  found  a  new 
world  indeed.  The  wind  was  fair;  the  sun  mounted 
into  a  cloudless  heaven;  through  great  dark  blue  seas 
the  ship  cut  a  swath  of  curded  foam.  The  horizon  was 
dotted  all  day  with  companionable  sails,  and  the  sun 
shone  pleasantly  on  the  long,  heaving  deck. 

26 


STEERAGE  SCENES 

We  had  many  fine-weather  diversions  to  beguile  the 
time.  There  was  a  single  chess-board  and  a  single  pack 
of  cards.  Sometimes  as  many  as  twenty  of  us  would 
be  playing  dominoes  for  love.  Feats  of  dexterity,  puz- 
zles for  the  intelligence,  some  arithmetical,  some  of  the 
same  order  as  the  old  problem  of  the  fox  and  goose  and 
cabbage,  were  always  welcome;  and  the  latter,  I  ob- 
served, more  popular  as  well  as  more  conspicuously 
well  done  than  the  former.  We  had  a  regular  daily 
competition  to  guess  the  vessel's  progress ;  and  twelve 
o'clock,  when  the  result  was  published  in  the  wheel- 
house,  came  to  be  a  moment  of  considerable  interest. 
But  the  interest  was  unmixed.  Not  a  bet  was  laid  upon 
our  guesses.  From  the  Clyde  to  Sandy  Hook  I  never 
heard  a  wager  offered  or  taken.  We  had,  besides, 
romps  in  plenty.  Puss  in  the  Corner,  which  we  had 
rebaptized,  in  more  manly  style.  Devil  and  four  Corners, 
was  my  own  favourite  game;  but  there  were  many 
who  preferred  another,  the  humour  of  which  was  to 
box  a  person's  ears  until  he  found  out  who  had  cuffed 
him. 

This  Tuesday  morning  we  were  all  delighted  with 
the  change  of  weather,  and  in  the  highest  possible 
spirits.  We  got  in  a  cluster  like  bees,  sitting  between 
each  other's  feet  under  lee  of  the  deck-houses.  Stories 
and  laughter  went  around.  The  children  climbed  about 
the  shrouds.  White  faces  appeared  for  the  first  time, 
and  began  to  take  on  colour  from  the  wind.  I  was 
kept  hard  at  work  making  cigarettes  for  one  amateur 
after  another,  and  my  less  than  moderate  skill  was 
heartily  admired.  Lastly,  down  sat  the  fiddler  in  our 
midst  and  began  to  discourse  his  reels,  and  jigs,  and 

27 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

ballads,  with  now  and  then  a  voice  or  two  to  take  up 
the  air  and  throw  in  the  interest  of  human  speech. 

Through  this  merry  and  good-hearted  scene  there 
came  three  cabin  passengers,  a  gentleman  and  two 
young  ladies,  picking  their  way  with  little  gracious  tit- 
ters of  indulgence,  and  a  Lady-Bountiful  air  about  no- 
thing, which  galled  me  to  the  quick.  I  have  little  of 
the  radical  in  social  questions,  and  have  always  nour- 
ished an  idea  that  one  person  was  as  good  as  another. 
But  I  began  to  be  troubled  by  this  episode.  It  was  as- 
tonishing what  insults  these  people  managed  to  convey 
by  their  presence.  They  seemed  to  throw  their  clothes 
in  our  faces.  Their  eyes  searched  us  all  over  for  tatters 
and  incongruities.  A  laugh  was  ready  at  their  lips ;  but 
they  were  too  well-mannered  to  indulge  it  in  our  hear- 
ing. Wait  a  bit,  till  they  were  all  back  in  the  saloon, 
and  then  hear  how  wittily  they  would  depict  the  man- 
ners of  the  steerage.  We  were  in  truth  very  innocently, 
cheerfully,  and  sensibly  engaged,  and  there  was  no 
shadow  of  excuse  for  the  swaying  elegant  superiority 
with  which  these  damsels  passed  among  us,  or  for  the 
stiff  and  waggish  glances  of  their  squire.  Not  a  word 
was  said ;  only  when  they  were  gone  Mackay  sullenly 
damned  their  impudence  under  his  breath ;  but  we  were 
all  conscious  of  an  icy  influence  and  a  dead  break  in  the 
course  of  our  enjoyment. 


aS 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

We  had  a  fellow  on  board,  an  Irish-American,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  beggar  in  a  print  by  Callot;  one-eyed, 
with  great,  splay  crow's-feet  round  the  sockets;  a 
knotty  squab  nose  coming  down  over  his  mustache;  a 
miraculous  hat;  a  shirt  that  had  been  white,  ay,  ages 
long  ago ;  an  alpaca  coat  in  its  last  sleeves ;  and,  with- 
out hyperbole,  no  buttons  to  his  trousers.  Even  in 
these  rags  and  tatters,  the  man  twinkled  all  over  with 
impudence  like  a  piece  of  sham  jewellery ;  and  I  have 
heard  him  offer  a  situation  to  one  of  his  fellow-passen- 
gers with  the  air  of  a  lord.  Nothing  could  overlie  such 
a  fellow;  a  kind  of  base  success  was  written  on  his 
brow.  He  was  then  in  his  ill  days ;  but  I  can  imagine 
him  in  Congress  with  his  mouth  full  of  bombast  and 
sawder.  As  we  moved  in  the  same  circle,  I  was  brought 
necessarily  into  his  society.  1  do  not  think  I  ever  heard 
him  say  anything  that  was  true,  kind,  or  interesting; 
but  there  was  entertainment  in  the  man's  demeanour. 
You  might  call  him  a  half-educated  Irish  Tigg. 

Our  Russian  made  a  remarkable  contrast  to  this  im- 
possible fellow.  Rumours  and  legends  were  current  in 
the  steerages  about  his  antecedents.  Some  said  he  was 
a  Nihilist  escaping;  others  set  him  down  for  a  harmless 
spendthrift,  who  had  squandered  fifty  thousand  roubles, 

29 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

and  whose  father  had  now  despatched  him  to  America 
by  way  of  penance.  Either  tale  might  flourish  in  se- 
curity ;  there  was  no  contradiction  to  be  feared,  for  the 
hero  spoke  not  one  word  of  English.  I  got  on  with 
him  lumberingly  enough  in  broken  German,  and  learnt 
from  his  own  lips  that  he  had  been  an  apothecary. 
He  carried  the  photograph  of  his  betrothed  in  a  pocket- 
book,  and  remarked  that  it  did  not  do  her  justice.  The 
cut  of  his  head  stood  out  from  among  the  passengers 
with  an  air  of  startling  strangeness.  The  first  natural 
instinct  was  to  take  him  for  a  desperado ;  but  although 
the  features,  to  our  Western  eyes,  had  a  barbaric  and 
unhomely  cast,  the  eye  both  reassured  and  touched. 
It  was  large  and  very  dark  and  soft,  with  an  expression 
of  dumb  endurance,  as  if  it  had  often  looked  on  desper- 
ate circumstances  and  never  looked  on  them  without 
resolution. 

He  cried  out  when  I  used  the  word.  ''No,  no,"  he 
said,  ''not  resolution." 

"The  resolution  to  endure,"  I  explained. 

And  then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said,  ''Ach, 
ja/'  with  gusto,  like  a  man  who  has  been  flattered  in 
his  favourite  pretensions.  Indeed,  he  was  always  hinting 
at  some  secret  sorrow ;  and  his  life,  he  said,  had  been 
one  of  unusual  trouble  and  anxiety ;  so  the  legends  of 
the  steerage  may  have  represented  at  least  some  shadow 
of  the  truth.  Once,  and  once  only,  he  sang  a  song  at 
our  concerts;  standing  forth  without  embarrassment, 
his  great  stature  somewhat  humped,  his  long  arms  fre- 
quently extended,  his  Kalmuck  head  thrown  backward. 
It  was  a  suitable  piece  of  music,  as  deep  as  a  cow's  bellow 
and  wild  like  the  White  Sea.  He  was  struck  and  charmed 

30 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

by  the  freedom  and  sociality  of  our  manners.  At  home, 
he  said,  no  one  on  a  journey  would  speak  to  him,  but 
those  with  whom  he  would  not  care  to  speak;  thus  un- 
consciously involving  himself  in  the  condemnation  of 
his  countrymen.  But  Russia  was  soon  to  be  changed; 
the  ice  of  the  Neva  was  softening  under  the  sun  of  civ- 
ilization ;  the  new  ideas,  '"  wie  einefeine  yioline/*  v^trt 
audible  among  the  big  empty  drum  notes  of  Imperial 
diplomacy;  and  he  looked  to  see  a  great  revival,  though 
with  a  somewhat  indistinct  and  childish  hope. 

We  had  a  father  and  son  who  made  a  pair  of  Jacks-of- 
all-trades.  It  was  the  son  who  sang  the  *' Death  of 
Nelson  "  under  such  contrarious  circumstances.  He  was 
by  trade  a  shearer  of  ship  plates ;  but  he  could  touch  the 
organ,  had  led  two  choirs,  and  played  the  flute  and  pic- 
colo in  a  professional  string  band.  His  repertory  of  songs 
was,  besides,  inexhaustible,  and  ranged  impartially  from 
the  very  best  to  the  very  worst  within  his  reach.  Nor 
did  he  seem  to  make  the  least  distinction  between  these 
extremes,  but  would  cheerfully  follow  up  '*Tom  Bowl- 
ing" with  **  Around  her  splendid  form." 

The  father,  an  old,  cheery,  small  piece  of  manhood, 
could  do  everything  connected  with  tinwork  from  one 
end  of  the  process  to  the  other,  use  almost  every  car- 
penter's tool,  and  make  picture  frames  to  boot.  *'I  sat 
down  with  silver  plate  every  Sunday,"  said  he,  **and 
pictures  on  the  wall.  I  have  made  enough  money  to  be 
rolling  in  my  carriage.  But,  sir,"  looking  at  me  unstead- 
ily with  his  bright  rheumy  eyes,  '*  I  was  troubled  with 
a  drunken  wife."  He  took  a  hostile  view  of  matrimony 
in  consequence.  ''It's  an  old  saying,"  he  remarked: 
''God  made  'em,  and  the  devil  he  mixed  'em." 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

I  think  he  was  justified  by  his  experience.  It  was  a 
dreary  story.  He  would  bring  home  three  pounds  on 
Saturday,  and  on  Monday  all  the  clothes  would  be  in 
pawn.  Sick  of  the  useless  struggle,  he  gave  up  a  pay- 
ing contract,  and  contented  himself  with  small  and  ill- 
paid  jobs.  **  A  bad  job  was  as  good  as  a  good  job  for 
me,'*  he  said;  "it  all  went  the  same  way."  Once  the 
wife  showed  signs  of  amendment;  she  kept  steady  for 
weeks  on  end;  it  was  again  worth  while  to  labour  and 
to  do  one's  best.  The  husband  found  a  good  situation 
some  distance  from  home,  and,  to  make  a  little  upon 
every  hand,  started  the  wife  in  a  cook-shop ;  the  chil- 
dren were  here  and  there,  busy  as  mice;  savings  be- 
gan to  grow  together  in  the  bank,  and  the  golden  age 
of  hope  had  returned  again  to  that  unhappy  family.  But 
one  week  my  old  acquaintance,  getting  earlier  through 
with  his  work,  came  home  on  the  Friday  instead  of  the 
Saturday,  and  there  was  his  wife  to  receive  him  reeling 
drunk.  He  ''took  and  gave  her  a  pair  o'  black  eyes," 
for  which  I  pardon  him,  nailed  up  the  cook-shop  door, 
gave  up  his  situation,  and  resigned  himself  to  a  life  of 
poverty,  with  the  workhouse  at  the  end.  As  the  chil- 
dren came  to  their  full  age  they  fled  the  house,  and  estab- 
lished themselves  in  other  countries;  some  did  well, 
some  not  so  well;  but  the  father  remained  at  home 
alone  with  his  drunken  wife,  all  his  sound-hearted  pluck 
and  varied  accomplishments  depressed  and  negatived. 

Was  she  dead  now  ?  or,  after  all  these  years,  had  he 
broken  the  chain,  and  run  from  home  like  a  schoolboy  ? 
I  could  not  discover  which ;  but  here  at  least  he  was  out 
on  the  adventure,  and  still  one  of  the  bravest  and  most 
youthful  men  on  board. 

32 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

*'Now,  I  suppose,  I  must  put  my  old  bones  to  work 
again,"  said  he;  *'  but  I  can  do  a  turn  yet." 

And  the  son  to  whom  he  was  going,  I  asked,  was  he 
not  able  to  support  him  ? 

'*0h  yes,"  he  replied.  *'But  I'm  never  happy  with- 
out a  job  on  hand.  And  I'm  stout;  I  can  eat  a'most 
anything.     You  see  no  craze  about  me." 

This  tale  of  a  drunken  wife  was  paralleled  on  board 
by  another  of  a  drunken  father.  He  was  a  capable  man, 
with  a  good  chance  in  life ;  but  he  had  drunk  up  two 
thriving  businesses  like  a  bottle  of  sherry,  and  involved 
his  sons  along  with  him  in  ruin.  Now  they  were  on 
board  with  us,  fleeing  his  disastrous  neighbourhood. 

Total  abstinence,  like  all  ascetical  conclusions,  is  un- 
friendly to  the  most  generous,  cheerful,  and  human 
parts  of  man ;  but  it  could  have  adduced  many  instan- 
ces and  arguments  from  among  our  ship's  company.  I 
was  one  day  conversing  with  a  kind  and  happy  Scots- 
man, running  to  fat  and  perspiration  in  the  physical, 
but  with  a  taste  for  poetry  and  a  genial  sense  of  fun.  I 
had  asked  him  his  hopes  in  emigrating.  They  were  like 
those  of  so  many  others,  vague  and  unfounded ;  times 
were  bad  at  home ;  they  were  said  to  have  a  turn  for 
the  better  in  the  States ;  and  a  man  could  get  on  any- 
where, he  thought.  That  was  precisely  the  weak  point 
of  his  position ;  for  if  he  could  get  on  in  America,  why 
could  he  not  do  the  same  in  Scotland  ?  But  I  never 
had  the  courage  to  use  that  argument,  though  it  was 
often  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  and  instead  I  agreed 
with  him  heartily,  adding,  with  reckless  originality, 
*'If  the  man  stuck  to  his  work,  and  kept  away  from 
drink." 

33 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

**Ah!"  said  he  slowly,  *'the  drink!  You  see,  that's 
just  my  trouble." 

He  spoke  with  a  simplicity  that  was  touching,  look- 
ing at  me  at  the  same  time  with  something  strange  and 
timid  in  his  eye,  half-ashamed,  half-sorry,  like  a  good 
child  who  knows  he  should  be  beaten.  You  would 
have  said  he  recognised  a  destiny  to  which  he  was  born, 
and  accepted  the  consequences  mildly.  Like  the  mer- 
chant Abudah,  he  was  at  the  same  time  fleeing  from  his 
destiny  and  carrying  it  along  with  him,  the  whole  at  an 
expense  of  six  guineas. 

As  far  as  I  saw,  drink,  idleness,  and  incompetency 
were  the  three  great  causes  of  emigration,  and  for  all  of 
them,  and  drink  first  and  foremost,  this  trick  of  getting 
transported  overseas  appears  to  me  the  silliest  means  of 
cure.  You  cannot  run  away  from  a  weakness;  you 
must  some  time  fight  it  out  or  perish ;  and  if  that  be  so, 
why  not  now,  and  where  you  stand  ?  Ccelum  non  ant- 
mam.  Change  Glenlivet  for  Bourbon,  and  it  is  still 
whisky,  only  not  so  good.  A  sea-voyage  will  not  give 
a  man  the  nerve  to  put  aside  cheap  pleasure ;  emigration 
has  to  be  done  before  we  climb  the  vessel;  an  aim  in 
life  is  the  only  fortune  worth  the  finding;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  found  in  foreign  lands,  but  in  the  heart  itself. 

Speaking  generally,  there  is  no  vice  of  this  kind  more 
contemptible  than  another;  for  each  is  but  a  result  and 
outward  sign  of  a  soul  tragically  shipwrecked.  In  the 
majority  of  cases,  cheap  pleasure  is  resorted  to  by  way 
of  anodyne.  The  pleasure-seeker  sets  forth  upon  life 
with  high  and  difficult  ambitions ;  he  meant  to  be  nobly 
good  and  nobly  happy,  though  at  as  little  pains  as  pos- 
sible to  himself;  and  it  is  because  all  has  failed  in  his 

34 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

celestial  enterprise  that  you  now  behold  him  rolling  in 
the  garbage.  Hence  the  comparative  success  of  the  tee- 
total pledge ;  because  to  a  man  who  had  nothing  it  sets 
at  least  a  negative  aim  in  life.  Somewhat  as  prisoners 
beguile  their  days  by  taming  a  spider,  the  reformed 
drunkard  makes  an  interest  out  of  abstaining  from  in- 
toxicating drinks,  and  may  live  for  that  negation.  There 
is  something,  at  least,  not  to  be  done  each  day;  and  a 
cold  triumph  awaits  him  every  evening. 

We  had  one  on  board  with  us,  whom  I  have  already 
referred  to  under  the  name  of  Mackay,  who  seemed  to 
me  not  only  a  good  instance  of  this  failure  in  life  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking,  but  a  good  type  of  the 
intelligence  which  here  surrounded  me.  Physically  he 
was  a  small  Scotsman,  standing  a  little  back  as  though 
he  were  already  carrying  the  elements  of  a  corporation, 
and  his  looks  somewhat  marred  by  the  smallness  of  his 
eyes.  Mentally,  he  was  endowed  above  the  average. 
There  were  but  few  subjects  on  which  he  could  not 
converse  with  understanding  and  a  dash  of  wit;  deliver- 
ing himself  slowly  and  with  gusto,  like  a  man  who  en- 
joyed his  own  sententiousness.  He  was  a  dry,  quick, 
pertinent  debater,  speaking  with  a  small  voice,  and 
swinging  on  his  heels  to  launch  and  emphasise  an  argu- 
ment. When  he  began  a  discussion,  he  could  not  bear 
to  leave  it  off,  but  would  pick  the  subject  to  the  bone, 
without  once  relinquishing  a  point.  An  engineer  by 
trade,  Mackay  believed  in  the  unlimited  perfectibility  of 
all  machines  except  the  human  machine.  The  latter  he 
gave  up  with  ridicule  for  a  compound  of  carrion  and 
perverse  gases.  He  had  an  appetite  for  disconnected 
facts  which  I  can  only  compare  to  the  savage  taste  for 

35 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

beads.  What  is  called  information  was  indeed  a  passion 
with  the  man,  and  he  not  only  delighted  to  receive  it, 
but  could  pay  you  back  in  kind. 

With  all  these  capabilities,  here  was  Mackay,  already 
no  longer  young,  on  his  way  to  a  new  country,  with  no 
prospects,  no  money,  and  but  little  hope.  He  was  al- 
most tedious  in  the  cynical  disclosures  of  his  despair. 
''The ship  may  go  down  for  me,"  he  would  say,  *'  now 
or  to-morrow.  I  have  nothing  to  lose  and  nothing  to 
hope."  And  again:  *'I  am  sick  of  the  whole  damned 
performance."  He  was,  like  the  kind  little  man  already 
quoted,  another  so-called  victim  of  the  bottle.  But 
Mackay  was  miles  from  publishing  his  weakness  to  the 
world ;  laid  the  blame  of  his  failure  on  corrupt  masters 
and  a  corrupt  State  policy ;  and  after  he  had  been  one 
night  overtaken  and  had  played  the  buffoon  in  his  cups, 
sternly,  though  not  without  tact,  suppressed  all  refer- 
ence to  his  escapade.  It  was  a  treat  to  see  him  manage 
this ;  the  various  jesters  withered  under  his  gaze,  and  you 
were  forced  to  recognise  in  him  a  certain  steely  force,  and 
a  gift  of  command  which  might  have  ruled  a  senate. 

In  truth  it  was  not  whisky  that  had  ruined  him ;  he 
was  ruined  long  before  for  all  good  human  purposes  but 
conversation.  His  eyes  were  sealed  by  a  cheap,  school- 
book  materialism.  He  could  see  nothing  in  the  world 
but  money  and  steam-engines.  He  did  not  know  what 
you  meant  by  the  word  happiness.  He  had  forgotten 
the  simple  emotions  of  childhood,  and  perhaps  never 
encountered  the  delights  of  youth.  He  believed  in  pro- 
duction, that  useful  figment  of  economy,  as  if  it  had 
been  real  like  laughter;  and  production,  without  preju- 
dice to  liquor,  was  his  god  and  guide.     One  day  he 

36 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

took  me  to  task  —  a  novel  cry  to  me — upon  the  over- 
payment of  literature.  Literary  men,  he  said,  were 
more  highly  paid  than  artisans;  yet  the  artisan  made 
threshing-machines  and  butter-churns,  and  the  man  of 
letters,  except  in  the  way  of  a  few  useful  handbooks, 
made  nothing  worth  the  while.  He  produced  a  mere 
fancy  article.  Mackay's  notion  of  a  book  was  Hoppus's 
Measurer.  Now  in  my  time  I  have  possessed  and  even 
studied  that  work;  but  if  I  were  to  be  left  to-morrow 
on  Juan  Fernandez,  Hoppus's  is  not  the  book  that  I 
should  choose  for  my  companion  volume. 

I  tried  to  fight  the  point  with  Mackay.  I  made  him 
own  that  he  had  taken  pleasure  in  reading  books  other- 
wise, to  his  view,  insignificant;  but  he  was  too  wary 
to  advance  a  step  beyond  the  admission.  It  was  in  vain 
for  me  to  argue  that  here  was  pleasure  ready-made  and 
running  from  the  spring,  whereas  his  ploughs  and  but- 
ter-churns were  but  means  and  mechanisms  to  give  men 
the  necessary  food  and  leisure  before  they  start  upon 
the  search  for  pleasure;  he  jibbed  and  ran  away  from 
such  conclusions.  The  thing  was  different,  he  declared, 
and  nothing  was  serviceable  but  what  had  to  do  with 
food.  ''Eat,  eat,  eat!"  he  cried;  "that's  the  bottom 
and  the  top."  By  an  odd  irony  of  circumstance,  he 
grew  so  much  interested  in  this  discussion  that  he  let 
the  hour  slip  by  unnoticed  and  had  to  go  without  his 
tea.  He  had  enough  sense  and  humour,  indeed  he  had 
no  lack  of  either,  to  have  chuckled  over  this  himself  in 
private ;  and  even  to  me  he  referred  to  it  with  the  sha- 
dow of  a  smile. 

Mackay  was  a  hot  bigot.  He  would  not  hear  of  re- 
ligion.    I  have  seen  him  waste  hours  of  time  in  argu- 

37, 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

ment  with  all  sort  of  poor  human  creatures  who  under- 
stood neither  him  nor  themselves,  and  he  had  had  the 
boyishness  to  dissect  and  criticise  even  so  small  a  matter 
as  the  riddler's  definition  of  mind.  He  snorted  aloud 
with  zealotry  and  the  lust  for  intellectual  battle.  Any- 
thing, whatever  it  was,  that  seemed  to  him  likely  to 
discourage  the  continued  passionate  production  of  corn 
and  steam-engines  he  resented  like  a  conspiracy  against 
the  people.  Thus,  when  I  put  in  the  plea  for  literature, 
that  it  was  only  in  good  books,  or  in  the  society  of  the 
good,  that  a  man  could  get  help  in  his  conduct,  he  de- 
clared I  was  in  a  different  world  from  him.  '  *  Damn  my 
conduct! "  said  he.  "I  have  given  it  up  for  a  bad  job. 
My  question  is,  *Can  I  drive  a  nail.?'"  And  he  plainly 
looked  upon  me  as  one  who  was  insidiously  seeking  to 
reduce  the  people's  annual  bellyful  of  corn  and  steam- 
engines. 

It  may  be  argued  that  these  opinions  spring  from  the 
defect  of  culture;  that  a  narrow  and  pinching  way  of  life 
not  only  exaggerates  to  a  man  the  importance  of  mate- 
rial conditions,  but  indirectly,  by  denying  him  the  neces- 
sary books  and  leisure,  keeps  his  mind  ignorant  of  larger 
thoughts;  and  that  hence  springs  this  overwhelming 
concern  about  diet,  and  hence  the  bald  view  of  existence 
professed  by  Mackay.  Had  this  been  an  English  peasant 
the  conclusion  would  be  tenable.  But  Mackay  had 
most  of  the  elements  of  a  liberal  education.  He  had 
skirted  metaphysical  and  mathematical  studies.  He  had 
a  thoughtful  hold  of  what  he  knew,  which  would  be  ex- 
ceptional among  bankers.  He  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  midst  of  hot-house  piety,  and  told,  with  incongru- 
ous pride,  the  story  of  his  own  brother's    deathbed 

38 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

ecstasies.  Yet  he  had  somehow  failed  to  fulfil  himself, 
and  was  adrift  like  a  dead  thing  among  external  circum- 
stances, without  hope  or  lively  preference  or  shaping 
aim.  And  further,  there  seemed  a  tendency  among 
many  of  his  fellows  to  fall  into  the  same  blank  and  un- 
lovely opinions.  One  thing,  indeed,  is  not  to  be  learned 
in  Scotland,  and  that  is  the  way  to  be  happy,  Yet  that 
is  the  whole  of  culture,  and  perhaps  two-thirds  of  mo- 
rality. Can  it  be  that  the  Puritan  school,  by  divorcing 
a  man  from  nature,  by  thinning  out  his  instincts,  and 
setting  a  stamp  of  its  disapproval  on  whole  fields  of 
human  activity  and  interest,  leads  at  last  directly  to 
material  greed  ? 

Nature  is  a  good  guide  through  life,  and  the  love  of 
simple  pleasures  next,  if  not  superior,  to  virtue;  and  we 
had  on  board  an  Irishman  who  based  his  claim  to  the 
widest  and  most  affectionate  popularity  precisely  upon 
these  two  qualities,  that  he  was  natural  and  happy.  He 
boasted  a  fresh  colour,  a  tight  little  figure,  unquenchable 
gaiety,  and  indefatigable  good-will.  His  clothes  puzzled 
the  diagnostic  mind,  until  you  heard  he  had  been  once  a 
private  coachman,  when  they  became  eloquent  and 
seemed  a  part  of  his  biography.  His  face  contained  the 
rest,  and,  I  fear,  a  prophecy  of  the  future;  the  hawk's 
nose  above  accorded  so  ill  with  the  pink  baby's  mouth 
below.  His  spirit  and  his  pride  belonged,  you  might 
say,  to  the  nose ;  while  it  was  the  general  shiftlessness 
expressed  by  the  other  that  had  thrown  him  from  situa- 
tion to  situation,  and  at  length  on  board  the  emigrant 
ship.  Barney  ate,  so  to  speak,  nothing  from  the  galley; 
his  own  tea,  butter  and  eggs  supported  him  through- 
out the  voyage ;  and  about  mealtime  you  might  often 

39  _ 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

find  him  up  to  the  elbows  in  amateur  cookery.  His  was 
the  first  voice  heard  singing  among  all  the  passengers ; 
he  was  the  first  who  fell  to  dancing.  From  Loch  Foyle 
to  Sandy  Hook,  there  was  not  a  piece  of  fun  undertaken 
but  there  was  Barney  in  the  midst. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  him  when  he  stood  up  to  sing 
at  our  concerts  —  his  tight  little  figure  stepping  to  and 
fro,  and  his  feet  shuffling  to  the  air,  his  eyes  seeking  and 
bestowing  encouragement  —  and  to  have  enjoyed  the 
bow,  so  nicely  calculated  between  jest  and  earnest,  be- 
tween grace  and  clumsiness,  with  which  he  brought 
each  song  to  a  conclusion.  He  was  not  only  a  great 
favourite  among  ourselves,  but  his  songs  attracted  the 
lords  of  the  saloon,  who  often  leaned  to  hear  him  over 
the  rails  of  the  hurricane-deck.  He  was  somewhat 
pleased,  but  not  at  all  abashed  by  this  attention ;  and 
one  night,  in  the  midst  of  his  famous  performance  of 
'*  Billy  Keogh,"  I  saw  him  spin  half  round  in  a  pirou- 
ette and  throw  an  audacious  wink  to  an  old  gentleman 
above. 

This  was  the  more  characteristic,  as,  for  all  his  daffmg, 
he  was  a  modest  and  very  polite  little  fellow  among 
ourselves. 

He  would  not  have  hurt  the  feelings  of  a  fly,  nor 
throughout  the  passage  did  he  give  a  shadow  of  of- 
ence;  yet  he  was  always,  by  his  innocent  freedoms  and 
love  of  fun,  brought  upon  that  narrow  margin  where 
politeness  must  be  natural  to  walk  without  a  fall.  He 
was  once  seriously  angry,  and  that  in  a  grave,  quiet 
manner,  because  they  supplied  no  fish  on  Friday;  for 
Barney  was  a  conscientious  Catholic.  He  had  likewise 
strict  notions  of  refinement;  and  when,  late  one  eve- 

40 


STEERAGE  TYPES 

ning,  after  the  women  had  retired,  a  young  Scotsman 
struck  up  an  indecent  song,  Barney's  drab  clothes  were 
immediately  missing  from  the  group.  His  taste  was  for 
the  society  of  gentlemen,  of  whom,  with  the  reader's 
permission,  there  was  no  lack  in  our  five  steerages  and 
second  cabin;  and  he  avoided  the  rough  and  positive 
with  a  girlish  shrinking.  Mackay,  partly  from  his  su- 
perior powers  of  mind,  which  rendered  him  incompre- 
hensible, partly  from  his  extreme  opinions,  was  espe- 
cially distasteful  to  the  Irishman.  I  have  seen  him  slink 
off  with  backward  looks  of  terror  and  offended  delicacy, 
while  the  other,  in  his  witty,  ugly  way,  had  been  pro- 
fessing hostility  to  God,  and  an  extreme  theatrical  readi- 
ness to  be  shipwrecked  on  the  spot.  These  utterances 
hurt  the  little  coachman's  modesty  like  a  bad  word. 


4« 


THE  SICK  MAN 

One  night  Jones,  the  young  O'Reilly,  and  myself  were 
walking  arm-in-arm  and  briskly  up  and  down  the  deck. 
Six  bells  had  rung;  a  head-wind  blew  chill  and  fitful,  the 
fog  was  closing  in  with  a  sprinkle  of  rain,  and  the  fog- 
whistle  had  been  turned  on,  and  now  divided  time 
with  its  unwelcome  outcries,  loud  like  a  bull,  thrilling 
and  intense  like  a  mosquito.  Even  the  watch  lay  some- 
where snugly  out  of  sight. 

For  some  time  we  observed  something  lying  black 
and  huddled  in  the  scuppers,  which  at  last  heaved  a  lit- 
tle and  moaned  aloud.  We  ran  to  the  rails.  An  elderly 
man,  but  whether  passenger  or  seaman  it  was  impossi- 
ble in  the  darkness  to  determine,  lay  grovelling  on  his 
belly  in  the  wet  scuppers,  and  kicking  feebly  with  his 
outspread  toes.  We  asked  him  what  was  amiss,  and 
he  replied  incoherently,  with  a  strange  accent  and  in  a 
voice  unmanned  by  terror,  that  he  had  cramp  in  the 
stomach,  that  he  had  been  ailing  all  day,  had  seen  the 
doctor  twice,  and  had  walked  the  deck  against  fatigue 
till  he  was  overmastered  and  had  fallen  where  we  found 
him. 

Jones  remained  by  his  side,  while  O'Reilly  and  I  hur- 
ried off  to  seek  the  doctor.    We  knocked  in  vain  at  the 


THE  SICK  MAN 

doctor's  cabin ;  there  came  no  reply ;  nor  could  we  find 
any  one  to  guide  us.  It  was  no  time  for  delicacy;  so 
we  ran  once  more  forward ;  and  I,  whipping  up  a  lad- 
der and  touching  my  hat  to  the  oificer  of  the  watch, 
addressed  him  as  politely  as  I  could : 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  there  is  a  man  lying  bad 
with  cramp  in  the  lee  scuppers;  and  I  can't  find  the 
doctor." 

He  looked  at  me  peeringly  in  the  darkness ;  and  then, 
somewhat  harshly,  *' Well,  /can't  leave  the  bridge,  my 
man,"  said  he. 

'  *  No,  sir ;  but  you  can  tell  me  what  to  do, "  I  returned. 

*Ms  it  one  of  the  crew  ?  "  he  asked. 

**  I  believe  him  to  be  a  fireman,"  I  replied. 

I  daresay  oificers  are  much  annoyed  by  complaints 
and  alarmist  information  from  their  freight  of  human 
creatures;  but  certainly,  whether  it  was  the  idea  that 
the  sick  man  was  one  of  the  crew,  or  from  something 
conciliatory  in  my  address,  the  oificer  in  question  was 
immediately  relieved  and  mollified;  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  much  freer  from  constraint,  advised  me  to  find  a 
steward  and  despatch  him  in  quest  of  the  doctor,  who 
would  now  be  in  the  smoking-room  over  his  pipe. 

One  of  the  stewards  was  often  enough  to  be  found 
about  this  hour  down  our  companion,  Steerage  No.  2 
and  3 ;  that  was  his  smoking-room  of  a  night.  Let  me 
call  him  Blackwood.  O'Reilly  and  I  rattled  down  the 
companion,  breathing  hurry ;  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
perched  across  the  carpenter's  bench  upon  one  thigh, 
found  Blackwood;  a  neat,  bright,  dapper,  Glasgow- 
looking  man,  with  a  bead  of  an  eye  and  a  rank  twang 
in  his  speech.    I  forget  who  was  with  him,  but  the  pair 

43 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

were  enjoying  a  deliberate  talk  over  their  pipes.  I  dare 
say  he  was  tired  with  his  day's  work,  and  eminently 
comfortable  at  that  moment;  and  the  truth  is,  I  did  not 
stop  to  consider  his  feelings,  but  told  my  story  in  a 
breath. 

*' Steward,"  said  I,  ** there's  a  man  lying  bad  with 
cramp,  and  I  can't  find  the  doctor." 

He  turned  upon  me  as  pert  as  a  sparrow,  but  with  a 
black  look  that  is  the  prerogative  of  man ;  and  taking 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 

*' That's  none  of  my  business,"  said  he.  ''I  don't 
care." 

I  could  have  strangled  the  little  ruffian  where  he  sat. 
The  thought  of  his  cabin  civility  and  cabin  tips  filled  me 
with  indignation.  I  glanced  at  O'Reilly;  he  was  pale 
and  quivering,  and  looked  like  assault  and  battery, 
every  inch  of  him.  But  we  had  a  better  card  than 
violence. 

"You  will  have  to  make  it  your  business,"  said  I, 
"for  I  am  sent  to  you  by  the  officer  on  the  bridge." 

Blackwood  was  fairly  tripped.  He  made  no  answer, 
but  put  out  his  pipe,  gave  me  one  murderous  look,  and 
set  off  upon  his  errand  strolling.  From  that  day  for- 
ward, I  should  say,  he  improved  to  me  in  courtesy,  as 
though  he  had  repented  his  evil  speech  and  were  anx- 
ious to  leave  a  better  impression. 

When  we  got  on  deck  again,  Jones  was  still  beside 
the  sick  man;  and  two  or  three  late  stragglers  had 
gathered  round  and  were  offering  suggestions.  One 
proposed  to  give  the  patient  water,  which  was  promptly 
negatived.  Another  bade  us  hold  him  up ;  he  himself 
prayed  to  be  let  lie;  but  as  it  was  at  least  as  well  ta 

44 


THE  SICK  MAN 

keep  him  off  the  streaming  decks,  O'Reilly  and  I  sup- 
ported him  between  us.  It  was  only  by  main  force 
that  we  did  so,  and  neither  an  easy  nor  an  agreeable 
duty ;  for  he  fought  in  his  paroxysms  like  a  frightened 
child,  and  moaned  miserably  when  he  resigned  himself 
to  our  control. 

*'  O  let  me  lie ! "  he  pleaded.  "  I'll  no'  get  better  any- 
way." And  then,  with  a  moan  that  went  to  my  heart, 
"  O  why  did  I  come  upon  this  miserable  journey  ?  " 

I  was  reminded  of  the  song  which  I  had  heard  a  little 
while  before  in  the  close,  tossing  steerage:  **  O  why  left 
I  my  hame?" 

Meantime  Jones,  relieved  of  his  immediate  charge, 
had  gone  off  to  the  galley,  where  we  could  see  a  light. 
There  he  found  a  belated  cook  scouring  pans  by  the 
radiance  of  two  lanterns,  and  one  of  these  he  sought  to 
borrow.  The  scullion  was  backward.  **  Was  it  one  of 
the  crew  ?  "  he  asked.  And  when  Jones,  smitten  with 
my  theory,  had  assured  that  it  was  a  fireman,  he  reluc- 
tantly left  his  scouring  and  came  towards  us  at  an  easy 
pace,  with  one  of  the  lanterns  swinging  from  his  finger. 
The  light,  as  it  reached  the  spot,  showed  us  an  elderly 
man,  thick-set,  and  grizzled  with  years;  but  the  shift- 
ing and  coarse  shadows  concealed  from  us  the  expres- 
sion and  even  the  design  of  his  face. 

So  soon  as  the  cook  set  eyes  on  him  he  gave  a  sort 
of  whistle. 

''It's  only  a  passenger  I' '  said  he;  and  turning  about, 
made,  lantern  and  all,  for  the  galley. 

'*He's  a  man  anyway,"  cried  Jones  in  indignation. 

'*  Nobody  said  he  was  a  woman,"  said  a  gruff  voice, 
which  I  recognised  for  that  of  the  bo's'un. 

45 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

All  this  while  there  was  no  word  of  Blackwood  or 
the  doctor;  and  now  the  officer  came  to  our  side  of  the 
ship  and  asked,  over  the  hurricane-deck  rails,  if  the  doc- 
tor were  not  yet  come.     We  told  him  not. 

'*No  ?"  he  repeated  with  a  breathing  of  anger;  and 
we  saw  him  hurry  aft  in  person. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  doctor  made  his  appearance 
deliberately  enough  and  examined  our  patient  with 
the  lantern.  He  made  little  of  the  case,  had  the  man 
brought  aft  to  the  dispensary,  dosed  him,  and  sent 
him  forward  to  his  bunk.  Two  of  his  neighbours  in 
the  steerage  had  now  come  to  our  assistance,  express- 
ing loud  sorrow  that  such  *'a  fine  cheery  body"  should 
be  sick ;  and  these,  claiming  a  sort  of  possession,  took 
him  entirely  under  their  own  care.  The  drug  had  prob- 
ably relieved  him,  for  he  struggled  no  more,  and  was 
led  along  plaintive  and  patient,  but  protesting.  His 
heart  recoiled  at  the  thought  of  the  steerage.  *'0 
let  me  lie  down  upon  the  bieldy  side,"  he  cried;  '*0 
dinna  take  me  down!"  And  again:  ''O  why  did 
ever  I  come  upon  this  miserable  voyage  ? "  And  yet 
once  more,  with  a  gasp  and  a  wailing  prolongation  of 
the  fourth  word:  "  I  had  no  call  to  come."  But  there 
he  was ;  and  by  the  doctor's  orders  and  the  kind  force 
of  his  two  shipmates  disappeared  down  the  companion 
of  Steerage  No.  i  into  the  den  allotted  him. 

At  the  foot  of  our  own  companion,  just  where  I  found 
Blackwood,  Jones  and  the  bo's'un  were  now  engaged  in 
talk.  This  last  was  a  gruff,  cruel-looking  seaman,  who 
must  have  passed  near  half  a  century  upon  the  seas; 
square-headed,  goat-bearded,  with  heavy  blond  eye- 
brows, and  an   eye  without  radiance,  but  inflexibly 

46 


THE  SICK  MAN 

Steady  and  hard.  I  had  not  forgotten  his  rough  speech ; 
but  I  remembered  also  that  he  had  helped  us  about  the 
lantern ;  and  now  seeing  him  in  conversation  with  Jones, 
and  being  choked  with  indignation,  I  proceeded  to  blow 
off  my  steam. 

"Well,"  said  I,  " I  make  you  my  compliments  upon 
your  steward,"  and  furiously  narrated  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"I've  nothing  to  do  with  him,"  replied  the  bo's'un. 
"They're  all  alike.  They  wouldn't  mind  if  they  saw 
you  all  lying  dead  one  upon  the  top  of  another." 

This  was  enough.  A  very  little  humanity  went  a 
long  way  with  me  after  the  experience  of  the  even- 
ing. A  sympathy  grew  up  at  once  between  the 
bo's'un  and  myself ;  and  that  night,  and  during  the 
next  few  days,  I  learned  to  appreciate  him  better. 
He  was  a  remarkable  type,  and  not  at  all  the  kind  of 
man  you  find  in  books.  He  had  been  at  Sebastopol 
under  English  colours;  and  again  in  a  States  ship, 
"after  the  Alabama,  and  praying  God  we  shouldn't 
find  her."  He  was  a  high  Tory  and  a  high  Englishman. 
No  manufacturer  could  have  held  opinions  more  hostile 
to  the  working  man  and  his  strikes.  ' '  The  workmen, " 
he  said,  "think  nothing  of  their  country.  They  think 
of  nothing  but  themselves.  They're  damned  greedy, 
selfish  fellows."  He  would  not  hear  of  the  decadence 
of  England.  "  They  say  they  send  us  beef  from  Amer- 
ica," he  argued;  "but  who  pays  for  it.^  All  the  mo- 
ney in  the  world's  in  England."  The  Royal  Navy 
was  the  best  of  possible  services,  according  to  him. 
"Anyway  the  officers  are  gentlemen,"  said  he;  "and 
you  can't  get  hazed  to  death  by  a  damned  non-commis- 

47 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

sioned as  you  can  in  the  army."  Among  na- 
tions, England  was  the  first;  then  came  France.  He 
respected  the  French  navy  and  liked  the  French  people ; 
and  if  he  were  forced  to  make  a  new  choice  in  life,  "by 
God,  he  would  try  Frenchmen!"  For  all  his  looks  and 
rough,  cold  manners,  I  observed  that  children  were 
never  frightened  by  him ;  they  divined  him  at  once  to  be 
a  friend ;  and  one  night  when  he  had  chalked  his  hand 
and  went  about  stealthily  setting  his  mark  on  people's 
clothes,  it  was  incongruous  to  hear  this  formidable  old 
salt  chuckling  over  his  boyish  monkey  trick. 

In  the  morning,  my  first  thought  was  of  the  sick  man. 
I  was  afraid  I  should  not  recognise  him,  so  baffling  had 
been  the  light  of  the  lantern ;  and  found  myself  unable 
to  decide  if  he  were  Scots,  English,  or  Irish.  He  had 
certainly  employed  north-country  words  and  elisions ; 
but  the  accent  and  the  pronunciation  seemed  unfamiliar 
and  incongruous  in  my  ear. 

To  descend  on  an  empty  stomach  into  Steerage  No. 
I,  was  an  adventure  that  required  some  nerve.  The 
stench  was  atrocious;  each  respiration  tasted  in  the 
throat  like  some  horrible  kind  of  cheese;  and  the 
squalid  aspect  of  the  place  was  aggravated  by  so  many 
people  worming  themselves  into  their  clothes  in  the 
twilight  of  the  bunks.  You  may  guess  if  I  was  pleased, 
not  only  for  him,  but  for  myself  also,  when  I  heard  that 
the  sick  man  was  better  and  had  gone  on  deck. 

The  morning  was  raw  and  foggy,  though  the  sun 
suffused  the  fog  with  pink  and  amber;  the  fog-horn  still 
blew,  stertorous  and  intermittent;  and  to  add  to  the  dis- 
comfort, the  seamen  were  just  beginning  to  wash  down 
the  decks.     But  for  a  sick  man  this  was  heaven  com- 

48 


THE  SICK  MAN 

pared  to  the  steerage.  I  found  him  standing  on  the  hot- 
water  pipe,  just  forward  of  the  saloon  deck  house.  He 
was  smaller  than  I  had  fancied,  and  plain-looking;  but 
his  face  was  distinguished  by  strange  and  fascinating 
eyes,  limpid  grey  from  a  distance,  but,  when  looked 
into,  full  of  changing  colours  and  grains  of  gold.  His 
manners  were  mild  and  uncompromisingly  plain;  and 
I  soon  saw  that,  when  once  started,  he  delighted  to 
talk.  His  accent  and  language  had  been  formed  in  the 
most  natural  way,  since  he  was  born  in  Ireland,  had 
lived  a  quarter  of  a  century  on  the  banks  of  Tyne,  and 
was  married  to  a  Scots  wife.  A  fisherman  in  the  season, 
he  had  fished  the  east  coast  from  Fisherrow  to  Whitby. 
When  the  season  was  over,  and  the  great  boats,  which 
required  extra  hands,  were  once  drawn  up  on  shore  till 
the  next  spring,  he  worked  as  a  labourer  about  chemical 
furnaces,  or  along  the  wharves  unloading  vessels.  In 
this  comparatively  humble  way  of  life  he  had  gathered 
a  competence,  and  could  speak  of  his  comfortable  house, 
his  hayfield,  and  his  garden.  On  this  ship,  where  so 
many  accomplished  artisans  were  fleeing  from  starvation, 
he  was  present  on  a  pleasure  trip  to  visit  a  brother  in 
New  York. 

Ere  he  started,  he  informed  me,  he  had  been  warned 
against  the  steerage  and  the  steerage  fare,  and  recom- 
mended to  bring  with  him  a  ham  and  tea  and  a  spice  loaf. 
But  he  laughed  to  scorn  such  counsels.  ""  I'm  not  afraid, " 
he  had  told  his  adviser;  "'  I'll  get  on  for  ten  days.  I've 
not  been  a  fisherman  for  nothing."  For  it  is  no  light 
matter,  as  he  reminded  me,  to  be  in  an  open  boat,  per- 
haps waist-deep  with  herrings,  day  breaking  with  a 
scowl,  and  for  miles  on  every  hand  lee-shores,  unbroken, 

49 


THE   AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

iron-bound,  surf-beat,  with  only  here  and  there  an  an- 
chorage where  you  dare  not  lie,  or  a  harbour  impossible 
to  enter  with  the  wind  that  blows.  The  life  of  a  North 
Sea  fisher  is  one  long  chapter  of  exposure  and  hard 
work  and  insufficient  fare ;  and  even  if  he  makes  land  at 
some  bleak  fisher  port,  perhaps  the  season  is  bad  or  his 
boat  has  been  unlucky,  and  after  fifty  hours'  unsleeping 
vigilance  and  toil,  not  a  shop  will  give  him  credit  for  a 
loaf  of  bread.  Yet  the  steerage  of  the  emigrant  ship  had 
been  too  vile  for  the  endurance  of  a  man  thus  rudely 
trained.  He  had  scarce  eaten  since  he  came  on  board, 
until  the  day  before,  when  his  appetite  was  tempted  by 
some  excellent  pea-soup.  We  were  all  much  of  the 
same  mind  on  board,  and  beginning  with  myself,  had 
dined  upon  pea-soup  not  wisely  but  too  well;  only 
with  him  the  excess  had  been  punished,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  weakened  by  former  abstinence,  and  his 
first  meal  had  resulted  in  a  cramp.  He  had  determined 
to  live  henceforth  on  biscuit;  and  when,  two  months 
later,  he  should  return  to  England,  to  make  the  passage 
by  saloon.  The  second  cabin,  after  due  inquiry,  he 
scouted  as  another  edition  of  the  steerage. 

He  spoke  apologetically  of  his  emotion  when  ill.  ' '  Ye 
see,  I  had  no  call  to  be  here,"  said  he;  '*and  I  thought 
it  was  by  with  me  last  night.  I've  a  good  house  at 
home,  and  plenty  to  nurse  me,  and  I  had  no  real  call 
to  leave  them."  Speaking  of  the  attentions  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  shipmates  generally,  ''they  were  all  so 
kind,"  he  said,  ''that  there's  none  to  mention."  And 
except  in  so  far  as  I  might  share  in  this,  he  troubled 
me  with  no  reference  to  my  services. 

But  what  affected  me  in  the  most  lively  manner  was 

50 


THE  SICK  MAN 

the  wealth  of  this  day-labourer,  paying  a  two  months' 
pleasure  visit  to  the  States,  and  preparing  to  return  in 
the  saloon,  and  the  new  testimony  rendered  by  his 
story,  not  so  much  to  the  horrors  of  the  steerage  as  to 
the  habitual  comfort  of  the  working  classes.  One  foggy, 
frosty  December  evening,  I  encountered  on  Liberton 
Hill,  near  Edinburgh,  an  Irish  labourer  trudging  home- 
ward from  the  fields.  Our  roads  lay  together,  and  it 
was  natural  that  we  should  fall  into  talk.  He  was  cov- 
ered with  mud;  an  inoffensive,  ignorant  creature,  who 
thought  the  Atlantic  Cable  was  a  secret  contrivance  of 
the  masters  the  better  to  oppress  labouring  mankind; 
and  I  confess  I  was  astonished  to  learn  that  he  had 
nearly  three  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank.  But  this 
man  had  travelled  over  most  of  the  world,  and  enjoyed 
wonderful  opportunities  on  some  American  railroad, 
with  two  dollars  a  shift  and  double  pay  on  Sunday 
and  at  night ;  whereas  my  fellow-passenger  had  never 
quitted  Tyneside,  and  had  made  all  that  he  possessed 
in  that  same  accursed,  down-falling  England,  whence 
skilled  mechanics,  engineers,  millwrights,  and  carpenters 
were  fleeing  as  from  the  native  country  of  starvation. 

Fitly  enough,  we  slid  off  on  the  subject  of  strikes  and 
wages  and  hard  times.  Being  from  the  Tyne,  and  a 
man  who  had  gained  and  lost  in  his  own  pocket  by 
these  fluctuations,  he  had  much  to  say,  and  held  strong 
opinions  on  the  subject.  He  spoke  sharply  of  the  mas- 
ters, and,  when  I  led  him  on,  of  the  men  also.  The 
masters  had  been  selfish  and  obstructive;  the  men 
selfish,  silly,  and  light-headed.  He  rehearsed  to  me 
the  course  of  a  meeting  at  which  he  had  been  present, 
and  the  somewhat  long  discourse  which  he  had  there 

51 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

pronounced,  calling  into  question  the  wisdom  and  even 
the  good  faith  of  the  Union  delegates;  and  although 
he  had  escaped  himself  through  flush  times  and  starva- 
tion times  with  a  handsomely  provided  purse,  he  had 
so  little  faith  in  either  man  or  master,  and  so  profound 
a  terror  for  the  unerring  Nemesis  of  mercantile  affairs, 
that  he  could  think  of  no  hope  for  our  country  outside 
of  a  sudden  and  complete  political  subversion.  Down 
must  go  Lords  and  Church  and  Army ;  and  capital,  by 
some  happy  direction,  must  change  hands  from  worse 
to  better,  or  England  stood  condemned.  Such  prin- 
ciples, he  said,  were  growing  *'like  a  seed." 

From  this  mild,  soft,  domestic  man,  these  words 
sounded  unusually  ominous  and  grave.  I  had  heard 
enough  revolutionary  talk  among  my  workmen  fellow- 
passengers;  but  most  of  it  was  hot  and  turgid,  and 
fell  discredited  from  the  lips  of  unsuccessful  men.  This 
man  was  calm;  he  had  attained  prosperity  and  ease; 
he  disapproved  the  policy  which  had  been  pursued  by 
labour  in  the  past;  and  yet  this  was  his  panacea, —  to 
rend  the  old  country  from  end  to  end,  and  from  top  to 
bottom,  and  in  clamour  and  civil  discord  remodel  it  with 
the  hand  of  violence. 


52 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

On  the  Sunday,  among  a  party  of  men  who  were 
talking  in  our  companion,  Steerage  Nos.  2  and  3,  we 
remarked  a  new  figure.  He  wore  tweed  clothes,  well 
enough  made  if  not  very  fresh,  and  a  plain  smoking-cap. 
His  face  was  pale,  with  pale  eyes,  and  spiritedly  enough 
designed ;  but  though  not  yet  thirty,  a  sort  of  black- 
guardly degeneration  had  already  overtaken  his  features. 
The  fine  nose  had  grown  fleshy  towards  the  point,  the 
pale  eyes  were  sunk  in  fat.  His  hands  were  strong  and 
elegant;  his  experience  of  life  evidently  varied;  his 
speech  full  of  pith  and  verve ;  his  manners  forward,  but 
perfectly  presentable.  The  lad  who  helped  in  the  sec- 
ond cabin  told  me,  in  answer  to  a  question,  that  he  did 
not  know  who  he  was,  but  thought,  *'by  his  way  of 
speaking,  and  because  he  was  so  polite,  that  he  was 
some  one  from  the  saloon." 

I  was  not  so  sure,  for  to  me  there  was  something 
equivocal  in  his  air  and  bearing.  He  might  have  been, 
I  thought,  the  son  of  some  good  family  who  had  fallen 
early  into  dissipation  and  run  from  home.  But,  making 
every  allowance,  how  admirable  was  his  talk!  I  wish 
you  could  have  heard  him  tell  his  own  stories.  They 
were  so  swingingly  set  forth,  in  such  dramatic  language, 

53 


THE   AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

and  illustrated  here  and  there  by  such  luminous  bits  of 
acting,  that  they  could  only  lose  in  any  reproduction. 
There  were  tales  of  the  P.  and  O.  Company,  where  he 
had  been  an  officer;  of  the  East  Indies,  where  in  former 
years  he  had  lived  lavishly ;  of  the  Royal  Engineers,  where 
he  had  served  for  a  period ;  and  of  a  dozen  other  sides 
of  life,  each  introducing  some  vigorous  thumb-nail  por- 
trait. He  had  the  talk  to  himself  that  night,  we  were 
all  so  glad  to  listen.  The  best  talkers  usually  address 
themselves  to  some  particular  society;  there  they  are 
kings,  elsewhere  camp-followers,  as  a  man  may  know 
Russian  and  yet  be  ignorant  of  Spanish ;  but  this  fellow 
had  a  frank,  headlong  power  of  style,  and  a  broad,  hu- 
man choice  of  subject,  that  would  have  turned  any  circle 
in  the  world  into  a  circle  of  hearers.  He  was  a  Homeric 
talker,  plain,  strong,  and  cheerful;  and  the  things  and 
the  people  of  which  he  spoke  became  readily  and  clearly 
present  to  the  minds  of  those  who  heard  him.  This, 
with  a  certain  added  colouring  of  rhetoric  and  rodomon- 
tade, must  have  been  the  style  of  Burns,  who  equally 
charmed  the  ears  of  duchesses  and  hostlers. 

Yet  freely  and  personally  as  he  spoke,  many  points 
remained  obscure  in  his  narration.  The  Engineers,  for 
instance,  was  a  service  which  he  praised  highly ;  it  is 
true  there  would  be  trouble  with  the  sergeants ;  but  then 
the  officers  were  gentlemen,  and  his  own,  in  particular, 
one  among  ten  thousand.  It  sounded  so  far  exactly 
like  an  episode  in  the  rakish,  topsy-turvy  life  of  such  an 
one  as  I  had  imagined.  But  then  there  came  incidents 
more  doubtful,  which  showed  an  almost  impudent  greed 
after  gratuities,  and  a  truly  impudent  disregard  for  truth. 
And  then  there  was  the  tale  of  his  departure.     He  had 

54 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

wearied,  it  seems,  of  Woolwich,  and  one  fine  day,  with 
a  companion,  slipped  up  to  London  for  a  spree.  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  spree  was  meant  to  be  a  long  one;  but 
God  disposes  all  things ;  and  one  morning,  near  West- 
minster Bridge,  whom  should  he  come  across  but  the 
very  sergeant  who  had  recruited  him  at  first!  What 
followed  ?  He  himself  indicated  cavalierly  that  he  had 
then  resigned.  Let  us  put  it  so.  But  these  resignations 
are  sometimes  very  trying. 

At  length,  after  having  delighted  us  for  hours,  he  took 
himself  away  from  the  companion;  and  I  could  ask 
Mackay  who  and  what  he  was.  *'That.?"  said  Mac- 
kay.     "Why,  that's  one  of  the  stowaways." 

"No  man,"  said  the  same  authority,  "who  has  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  sea,  would  ever  think  of  pay- 
ing for  a  passage."     I  give  the  statement  as  Mackay 's, 
without  endorsement;  yet  I  am  tempted  to  believe  that 
it  contains  a  grain  of  truth ;  and  if  you  add  that  the  mai 
shall  be  impudent  and  thievish,  or  else  dead-broke,  i/ 
may  even  pass  for  a  fair  representation  of  the  facts.    W/ 
gentlemen  of  England  who  live  at  home  at  ease  have, 
suspect,  very  insufficient  ideas  on  the  subject.     All  tf 
world  over,  people  are  stowing  away  in  coal-holes  ad 
dark  corners,  and  when  ships  are  once  out  to  sea,  b- 
pearing  again,  begrimed  and  bashful,  upon  deck,     /he 
career  of  these  sea-tramps  partakes  largely  of  the  ad^n- 
turous.     They  may  be  poisoned  by  coal-gas,  or  d^  by 
starvation  in  their  place  of  concealment;  or  when  ^und 
they  may  be  clapped  at  once  and  ignominiousl/  into 
irons,  thus  to  be  carried  to  their  promised  land,  tlte  port 
of  destination,  and  alas !  brought  back  in  the  sane  way 
to  that  from  which  they  started,  and  there  delivered  over 

55 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

to  the  magistrates  and  the  seclusion  of  a  county  jail. 
Since  I  crossed  the  Atlantic,  one  miserable  stowaway 
was  found  in  a  dying  state  among  the  fuel,  uttered  but 
a  word  or  two,  and  departed  for  a  farther  country  than 
America. 

When  the  stowaway  appears  on  deck,  he  has  but  one 
thing  to  pray  for :  that  he  be  set  to  work,  which  is  the 
price  and  sign  of  his  forgiveness.    After  half  an  hour  with 
a  swab  or  a  bucket,  he  feels  himself  as  secure  as  if  he  had 
paid  for  his  passage.     It  is  not  altogether  a  bad  thing  for 
the  company,  who  get  more  or  less  efficient  hands  for 
nothing  but  a  few  plates  of  junk  and  duff;  and  every 
now  and  again  find  themselves  better  paid  than  by  a 
whole  family  of  cabin  passengers.     Not  long  ago,  for 
instance,  a  packet  was  saved  from  nearly  certain  loss  by 
the  skill  and  courage  of  a  stowaway  engineer.    As  was 
no  more  than  just,  a  handsome  subscription  rewarded 
him  for  his  success ;  but  even  without  such  exceptional 
good  fortune,  as  things  stand  in  England  and  America, 
the  stowaway  will  often  make  a  good  profit  out  of  his 
dventure.     Four  engineers  stowed  away  last  summer 
n  the  same  ship,  the  Circassia;  and  before  two  days 
-af:er  their  arrival  each  of  the  four  had  found  a  comfort- 
ale  berth.     This  was  the  most  hopeful  tale  of  emigra- 
tici  that  1  heard  from  first  to  last ;  and  as  you  see,  the 
luc  was  for  stowaways. 

^y  curiosity  was  much  inflamed  by  what  I  heard; 
and  he  next  morning,  as  I  was  making  the  round  of  the 
ship,  I  was  delighted  to  find  the  ex-Royal  Engineer  en- 
gageoin  washing  down  the  white  paint  of  a  deck  house. 
There  vas  another  fellow  at  work  beside  him,  a  lad  not 
more  tian  twenty,  in  the  most  miraculous  tatters,  his 

56 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

handsome  face  sown  with  grains  of  beauty  and  lighted 
up  by  expressive  eyes.  Four  stowaways  had  been  found 
aboard  our  ship  before  she  left  the  Clyde,  but  these  two 
had  alone  escaped  the  ignominy  of  being  put  ashore. 
Alick,  my  acquaintance  of  last  night,  was  Scots  by  birth, 
and  by  trade  a  practical  engineer ;  the  other  was  from 
Devonshire,  and  had  been  to  sea  before  the  mast.  Two 
people  more  unlike  by  training,  character,  and  habits,  it 
would  be  hard  to  imagine ;  yet  here  they  were  together, 
scrubbing  paint. 

Alick  had  held  all  sorts  of  good  situations,  and  wasted 
many  opportunities  in  life.  1  have  heard  him  end  a 
story  with  these  words :  * '  That  was  in  my  golden  days, 
when  I  used  finger-glasses."  Situation  after  situation 
failed  him ;  then  followed  the  depression  of  trade,  and 
for  months  he  had  hung  round  with  other  idlers,  play- 
ing marbles  all  day  in  the  West  Park,  and  going  home 
at  night  to  tell  his  landlady  how  he  had  been  seeking 
for  a  job.  I  believe  this  kind  of  existence  was  not  un- 
pleasant to  Alick  himself,  and  he  might  have  long  con- 
tinued to  enjoy  idleness  and  a  life  on  tick;  but  he  had 
a  comrade,  let  us  call  him  Brown,  who  grew  restive. 
This  fellow  was  continually  threatening  to  slip  his  cable 
for  the  States,  and  at  last,  one  Wednesday,  Glasgow 
was  left  widowed  of  her  Brown.  Some  months  after- 
wards, Alick  met  another  old  chum  in  Sauchiehall 
Street. 

''  By  the  by,  Alick,"  said  he,  ''  I  met  a  gentleman  in 
New  York  who  was  asking  for  you." 

'*  Who  was  that  .^  "  asked  Alick. 

"The  new  second  engineer  on  board  the  So-and-so/' 
was  the  reply. 

57 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

''Well,  and  who  is  he  ?" 

''Brown,  to  be  sure." 

For  Brown  had  been  one  of  the  fortunate  quartette 
aboard  the  Circassia.  If  that  was  the  way  of  it  in  the 
States,  Alick  thought  it  was  high  time  to  follow  Brown's 
example.  He  spent  his  last  day,  as  he  put  it,  "  review- 
ing the  yeomanry,"  and  the  next  morning  says  he  to 
his  landlady,  "Mrs.  X.,  I'll  not  take  porridge  to-day, 
please;  I'll  take  some  eggs." 

"Why,  have  you  found  a  job  ?"  she  asked,  delighted. 

"Well,  yes,"  returned  the  perfidious  Alick;  "I  think 
I'll  start  to-day." 

And  so,  well  lined  with  eggs,  start  he  did,  but  for 
America.  I  am  afraid  that  landlady  has  seen  the  last 
of  him. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  get  on  board  in  the  confusion 
that  attends  a  vessel's  departure ;  and  in  one  of  the  dark 
corners  of  Steerage  No.  i,  flat  in  a  bunk  and  with  an 
empty  stomach,  Alick  made  the  voyage  from  the  Broo- 
mielaw  to  Greenock.  That  night,  the  ship's  yeoman 
pulled  him  out  by  the  heels  and  had  him  before  the 
mate.  Two  other  stowaways  had  already  been  found 
and  sent  ashore ;  but  by  this  time  darkness  had  fallen, 
they  were  out  in  the  middle  of  the  estuary,  and  the  last 
steamer  had  left  them  till  the  morning. 

"Take  him  to  the  forecastle  and  give  him  a  meal," 
said  the  mate,  "and  see  and  pack  him  off  the  first  thing 
to-morrow." 

In  the  forecastle  he  had  supper,  a  good  night's  rest, 
and  breakfast;  and  was  sitting  placidly  with  a  pipe, 
fancying  all  was  over  and  the  game  up  for  good  with 
that  ship,  when  one  of  the  sailors  grumbled  out  an  oath 

58 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

at  him,  with  a  ''  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  "  and  "Do 
you  call  that  hiding,  anyway  ?  "  There  was  need  of  no 
more;  Alick  was  in  another  bunk  before  the  day  was 
older.  Shortly  before  the  passengers  arrived,  the  ship 
was  cursorily  inspected.  He  heard  the  round  come 
down  the  companion  and  look  into  one  pen  after  an- 
other, until  they  came  within  two  of  the  one  in  which 
he  lay  concealed.  Into  these  last  two  they  did  not 
enter,  but  merely  glanced  from  without;  and  Alick 
had  no  doubt  that  he  was  personally  favoured  in  this 
escape.  It  was  the  character  of  the  man  to  attribute 
nothing  to  luck  and  but  little  to  kindness;  whatever 
happened  to  him  he  had  earned  in  his  own  right  amply ; 
favours  came  to  him  from  his  singular  attraction  and 
adroitness,  and  misfortunes  he  had  always  accepted 
with  his  eyes  open.  Half  an  hour  after  the  searchers 
had  departed,  the  steerage  began  to  fill  with  legitimate 
passengers,  and  the  worst  of  Alick's  troubles  was  at  an 
end.  He  was  soon  making  himself  popular,  smoking 
other  people's  tobacco,  and  politely  sharing  their  pri- 
vate stock  of  delicacies,  and  when  night  came  he  re- 
tired to  his  bunk  beside  the  others  with  composure. 
Next  day  by  afternoon,  Lough  Foyle  being  already 
far  behind,  and  only  the  rough  north-western  hills  of 
Ireland  within  view,  Alick  appeared  on  deck  to  court 
inquiry  and  decide  his  fate.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
was  known  to  several  on  board,  and  even  intimate 
with  one  of  the  engineers ;  but  it  was  plainly  not  the 
etiquette  of  such  occasions  for  the  authorities  to  avow 
their  information.  Every  one  professed  surprise  and 
anger  on  his  appearance,  and  he  was  led  prisoner  be- 
fore the  captain. 

59 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

**  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?"  inquired 
the  captain. 

* '  Not  much, "  said  Alick ;  * '  but  when  a  man  has  been 
a  long  time  out  of  a  job,  he  will  do  things  he  would  not 
under  other  circumstances." 

"Are  you  willing  to  work  ?" 

Alick  swore  he  was  burning  to  be  useful. 

*' And  what  can  you  do  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

He  replied  composedly  that  he  was  a  brass-fitter  by 
trade. 

"I  think  you  will  be  better  at  engineering,?"  sug- 
gested the  officer,  with  a  shrewd  look. 

''No,  sir,"  says  Alick  simply. — ''There's  few  can  beat 
me  at  a  lie,"  was  his  engaging  commentary  to  me  as  he 
recounted  the  affair. 

"Have  you  been  to  sea  ?"  again  asked  the  captain. 

"I've  had  a  trip  on  a  Clyde  steamboat,  sir,  but  no 
more,"  replied  the  unabashed  Alick. 

"Well,  we  must  try  and  fmd  some  work  for  you,'* 
concluded  the  officer. 

And  hence  we  behold  Alick,  clear  of  the  hot  engine- 
room,  lazily  scraping  paint  and  now  and  then  taking  a 
pull  upon  a  sheet.  "  You  leave  me  alone,"  was  his  de- 
duction. "  When  I  get  talking  to  a  man,  I  can  get  round 
him." 

The  other  stowaway,  whom  I  will  call  the  Devonian 

—  it  was  noticeable  that  neither  of  them  told  his  name 

—  had  both  been  brought  up  and  seen  the  world  in  a 
much  smaller  way.  His  father,  a  confectioner,  died  and 
was  closely  followed  by  his  mother.  His  sisters  had 
taken,  I  think,  to  dress-making.  He  himself  had  returned 
from  sea  about  a  year  ago  and  gone  to  live  with  his 

60 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

brother,  who  kept  the  ''George  Hotel" — *'it  was  not 
quite  a  real  hotel/'  added  the  candid  fellow — ''and  had 
a  hired  man  to  mind  the  horses."  At  first  the  Devonian 
was  very  welcome;  but  as  time  went  on  his  brother  not 
unnaturally  grew  cool  towards  him,  and  he  began  to  find 
himself  one  too  many  at  the  "  George  Hotel."  "I  don't 
think  brothers  care  much  for  you,"  he  said,  as  a  general 
reflection  upon  life.  Hurt  at  this  change,  nearly  penni- 
less, and  too  proud  to  ask  for  more,  he  set  off  on  foot 
and  walked  eighty  miles  to  Weymouth,  living  on  the 
journey  as  he  could.  He  would  have  enlisted,  but  he 
was  too  small  for  the  army  and  too  old  for  the  navy; 
and  thought  himself  fortunate  at  last  to  find  a  berth  on 
board  a  trading  dandy.  Somewhere  in  the  Bristol  Chan- 
nel, the  dandy  sprung  a  leak  and  went  down ;  and  though 
the  crew  were  picked  up  and  brought  ashore  by  fisher- 
men, they  found  themselves  with  nothing  but  the  clothes 
upon  their  back.  His  next  engagement  was  scarcely 
better  starred ;  for  the  ship  proved  so  leaky,  and  fright- 
ened them  all  so  heartily  during  a  short  passage  through 
the  Irish  Sea,  that  the  entire  crew  deserted  and  remained 
behind  upon  the  quays  of  Belfast. 

Evil  days  were  now  coming  thick  on  the  Devonian. 
He  could  find  no  berth  in  Belfast,  and  had  to  work  a 
passage  to  Glasgow  on  a  steamer.  She  reached  the 
Broomielaw  on  a  Wednesday :  the  Devonian  had  a  belly- 
ful that  morning,  laying  in  breakfast  manfully  to  pro- 
vide against  the  future,  and  set  ofT  along  the  quays  to 
seek  employment.  But  he  was  now  not  only  penniless, 
his  clothes  had  begun  to  fall  in  tatters ;  he  had  begun  to 
have  the  look  of  a  street  Arab ;  and  captains  will  have 
nothing  to  say  to  a  ragamuffin;  for  in  that  trade,  as  in 

6\ 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

all  Others,  it  is  the  coat  that  depicts  the  man.  You  may 
hand,  reef,  and  steer  like  an  angel,  but  if  you  have  a 
hole  in  your  trousers,  it  is  like  a  millstone  round  your 
neck.  The  Devonian  lost  heart  at  so  many  refusals. 
He  had  not  the  impudence  to  beg;  although,  as  he  said, 
*'when  I  had  money  of  my  own,  I  always  gave  it." 
It  was  only  on  Saturday  morning,  after  three  v/hole 
days  of  starvation,  that  he  asked  a  scone  from  a  milk- 
woman,  who  added  of  her  own  accord  a  glass  of  milk. 
He  had  now  made  up  his  mind  to  stow  away,  not  from 
any  desire  to  see  America,  but  merely  to  obtain  the 
comfort  of  a  place  in  the  forecastle  and  a  supply  of 
familiar  sea-fare.  He  lived  by  begging,  always  from 
milkwomen,  and  always  scones  and  milk,  and  was  not 
once  refused.  It  was  vile  wet  weather,  and  he  could 
never  have  been  dry.  By  night  he  walked  the  streets, 
and  by  day  slept  upon  Glasgow  Green,  and  heard,  in 
the  intervals  of  his  dozing,  the  famous  theologians  of 
the  spot  clear  up  intricate  points  of  doctrine  and  appraise 
the  merits  of  the  clergy.  He  had  not  much  instruction ; 
he  could  ''read  bills  on  the  street,"  but  was  "  main  bad 
at  writing";  yet  these  theologians  seem  to  have  im- 
pressed him  with  a  genuine  sense  of  amusement.  Why 
he  did  not  go  to  the  Sailor's  Home  I  know  not;  I  pre- 
sume there  is  in  Glasgow  one  of  these  institutions, 
which  are  by  far  the  happiest  and  the  wisest  effort  of 
contemporaneous  charity ;  but  I  must  stand  to  my  au- 
thor, as  they  say  in  old  books,  and  relate  the  story  as 
I  heard  it.  In  the  meantime,  he  had  tried  four  times  to 
stow  away  in  different  vessels,  and  four  times  had  been 
discovered  and  handed  back  to  starvation.  The  fifth 
time  was  lucky ;  and  you  may  judge  if  he  were  pleased 

62 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

to  be  aboard  ship  again,  at  his  old  work,  and  with  duff 
twice  a  week.  He  was,  said  Alick,  ''a  devil  for  the 
duff."  Or  if  devil  was  not  the  word,  it  was  one  if  any- 
thing stronger. 

The  difference  in  the  conduct  of  the  two  was  re- 
markable. The  Devonian  was  as  willing  as  any  paid 
hand,  swarmed  aloft  among  the  first,  pulled  his  natural 
weight  and  firmly  upon  a  rope,  and  found  work  for 
himself  when  there  was  none  to  show  him.  Alick,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  not  only  a  skulker  in  the  grain,  but 
took  a  humourous  and  fine  gentlemanly  view  of  the 
transaction.  He  would  speak  to  me  by  the  hour  in 
ostentatious  idleness;  and  only  if  the  bo's'un  or  a  mate 
came  by,  fell-to  languidly  for  just  the  necessary  time  till 
they  were  out  of  sight.  "Vm  not  breaking  my  heart 
with  it,"  he  remarked. 

Once  there  was  a  hatch  to  be  opened  near  where  he 
was  stationed ;  he  watched  the  preparations  for  a  second 
or  so  suspiciously,  and  then,  **  Hullo,"  said  he,  **  here's 
some  real  work  coming  —  I'm  off,"  and  he  was  gone 
that  moment.  Again,  calculating  the  six  guinea  passage- 
money,  and  the  probable  duration  of  the  passage,  he  re- 
marked pleasantly  that  he  was  getting  six  shillings  a  day 
for  this  job,  ''and  it's  pretty  dear  to  the  company  at 
that."  ''They  are  making  nothing  by  me,"  was  an- 
other of  his  observations;  "they're  making  something 
by  that  fellow."  And  he  pointed  to  the  Devonian,  who 
was  just  then  busy  to  the  eyes. 

The  more  you  saw  of  Alick,  the  more,  it  must  be 
owned,  you  learned  to  despise  him.  His  natural  talents 
were  of  no  use  either  to  himself  or  others ;  for  his  char- 
acter had  degenerated  like  his  face,  and  become  pulpy 

63 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

and  pretentious.  Even  his  power  of  persuasion,  which 
was  certainly  very  surprising,  stood  in  some  danger  of 
being  lost  or  neutralised  by  over-confidence.  He  lied  in 
an  aggressive,  brazen  manner,  like  a  pert  criminal  in  the 
dock;  and  he  was  so  vain  of  his  own  cleverness  that  he 
could  not  refrain  from  boasting,  ten  minutes  after,  of  the 
very  trick  by  which  he  had  deceived  you.  *'Why, 
now  I  have  more  money  than  when  I  came  on  board," 
he  said  one  night,  exhibiting  a  sixpence,  ''and  yet  I 
stood  myself  a  bottle  of  beer  before  I  went  to  bed  yes- 
terday. And  as  for  tobacco,  I  have  fifteen  sticks  of  it." 
That  was  fairly  successful  indeed;  yet  a  man  of  his 
superiority,  and  with  a  less  obtrusive  policy,  might, 
who  knows  ?  have  got  the  length  of  half  a  crown.  A 
man  who  prides  himself  upon  persuasion  should  learn 
the  persuasive  faculty  of  silence,  above  all  as  to  his  own 
misdeeds.  It  is  only  in  the  farce  and  for  dramatic  pur- 
poses that  Scapin  enlarges  on  his  peculiar  talents  to  the 
world  at  large. 

Scapin  is  perhaps  a  good  name  for  this  clever,  unfor- 
tunate Alick ;  for  at  the  bottom  of  all  his  misconduct 
there  was  a  guiding  sense  of  humour  that  moved  you  to 
forgive  him.  It  was  more  than  half  a  jest  that  he  con- 
ducted his  existence.  '' Oh,  man,"  he  said  to  me  once 
with  unusual  emotion,  like  a  man  thinking  of  his  mis- 
tress, ''I  would  give  up  anything  for  a  lark." 

It  was  in  relation  to  his  fellow-stowaway  that  Alick 
showed  the  best,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  the  only  good, 
points  of  his  nature.  "Mind  you,"  he  said  suddenly, 
changing  his  tone,  "  mind  you  that's  a  good  boy.  He 
wouldn't  tell  you  a  lie.  A  lot  of  them  think  he  is  a 
scamp  because  his  clothes  are  ragged,  but  he  isn't ;  he's 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

as  good  as  gold. "  To  hear  him,  you  become  aware  that 
Alick  himself  had  a  taste  for  virtue.  He  thought  his  own 
idleness  and  the  other's  industry  equally  becoming.  He 
was  no  more  anxious  to  insure  his  own  reputation  as  a 
liar  than  to  uphold  the  truthfulness  of  his  companion; 
and  he  seemed  unaware  of  what  was  incongruous  in 
his  attitude,  and  was  plainly  sincere  in  both  characters. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  he  should  take  an  interest 
in  the  Devonian,  for  the  lad  worshipped  and  served  him 
in  love  and  wonder.  Busy  as  he  was,  he  would  find 
time  to  warn  Alick  of  an  approaching  officer,  or  even  to 
tell  him  that  the  coast  was  clear,  and  he  might  slip  off 
and  smoke  a  pipe  in  safety.  '*  Tom,"  he  once  said  to 
him,  for  that  was  the  name  which  Alick  ordered  him  to 
use,  ''if  you  don't  like  going  to  the  galley,  I'll  go  for 
you.  You  ain't  used  to  this  kind  of  thing,  you  ain't. 
But  I'm  a  sailor;  and  I  can  understand  the  feelings  of 
any  fellow,  I  can."  Again,  he  was  hard  up,  and  casting 
about  for  some  tobacco,  for  he  was  not  so  liberally  used 
in  this  respect  as  others  perhaps  less  worthy,  when  Alick 
offered  him  the  half  of  one  of  his  fifteen  sticks.  I  think, 
for  my  part,  he  might  have  increased  the  offer  to  a  whole 
one,  or  perhaps  a  pair  of  them,  and  not  lived  to  regret 
his  liberality.  But  the  Devonian  refused.  "No,"  he 
said,  "you're  a  stowaway  like  me;  I  won't  take  it  from 
you,  I'll  take  it  from  some  one  who's  not  down  on  his 
luck." 

It  was  notable  in  this  generous  lad  that  he  was  strongly 
under  the  influence  of  sex.  If  a  woman  passed  near 
where  he  was  working,  his  eyes  lit  up,  his  hand  paused, 
and  his  mind  wandered  instantly  to  other  thoughts.  It 
was  natural  that  he  should  exercise  a  fascination  propor- 

65 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

tionally  strong  upon  women.  He  begged,  you  will  re- 
member, from  women  only,  and  was  never  refused. 
Without  wishing  to  explain  away  the  charity  of  those 
who  helped  him,  I  cannot  but  fancy  he  may  have  owed 
a  little  to  his  handsome  face,  and  to  that  quick,  respon- 
sive nature,  formed  for  love,  which  speaks  eloquently 
through  all  disguises,  and  can  stamp  an  impression  in 
ten  minutes'  talk  or  an  exchange  of  glances.  He  was 
the  more  dangerous  in  that  he  was  far  from  bold,  but 
seemed  to  woo  in  spite  of  himself,  and  with  a  soft  and 
pleading  eye.  Ragged  as  he  was,  and  many  a  scare- 
crow is  in  that  respect  more  comfortably  furnished,  even 
on  board  he  was  not  without  some  curious  admirers. 

There  was  a  girl  among  the  passengers,  a  tall,  blonde, 
handsome,  strapping  Irishwoman,  with  a  wild,  accom- 
modating eye,  whom  Alick  had  dubbed  Tommy,  with 
that  transcendental  appropriateness  that  defies  analysis. 
One  day  the  Devonian  was  lying  for  warmth  in  the 
upper  stoke-hole,  which  stands  open  on  the  deck,  when 
Irish  Tommy  came  past,  very  neatly  attired,  as  was  her 
custom. 

''Poor  fellow,"  she  said,  stopping,  ''you  haven't  a 
vest." 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  wish  Tad." 

Then  she  stood  and  gazed  on  him  in  silence,  until,  in 
his  embarrassment,  for  he  knew  not  how  to  look  under 
this  scrutiny,  he  pulled  out  his  pipe  and  began  to  fill  it 
with  tobacco. 

' '  Do  you  want  a  match  ?  "  she  asked.  And  before  he 
had  time  to  reply,  she  ran  off  and  presently  returned 
with  more  than  one. 

That  was  the  beginning  and  the  end,  as  far  as  our 

66 


THE  STOWAWAYS 

passage  is  concerned,  of  what  I  will  make  bold  to  call 
this  love-affair.  There  are  many  relations  which  go  on 
to  marriage  and  last  during  a  lifetime,  in  which  less  hu- 
man feeling  is  engaged  than  in  this  scene  of  five  minutes 
at  the  stoke-hole. 

Rigidly  speaking,  this  would  end  the  chapter  of  the 
stowaways ;  but  in  a  larger  sense  of  the  word  I  have  yet 
more  to  add.  Jones  had  discovered  and  pointed  out  to 
me  a  young  woman  who  was  remarkable  among  her 
fellows  for  a  pleasing  and  interesting  air.  She  was 
poorly  clad,  to  the  verge,  if  not  over  the  line,  of  disre- 
spectability,  with  a  ragged  old  jacket  and  a  bit  of  a  seal- 
skin cap  no  bigger  than  your  fist;  but  her  eyes,  her 
whole  expression,  and  her  manner,  even  in  ordinary 
moments,  told  of  a  true  womanly  nature,  capable  of 
love,  anger,  and  devotion.  She  had  a  look,  too,  of  re- 
finement, like  one  who  might  have  been  a  better  lady 
than  most,  had  she  been  allowed  the  opportunity. 
When  alone  she  seemed  preoccupied  and  sad;  but  she 
was  not  often  alone;  there  was  usually  by  her  side  a 
heavy,  dull,  gross  man  in  rough  clothes,  chary  of  speech 
and  gesture — not  from  caution,  but  poverty  of  disposi- 
tion; a  man  like  a  ditcher,  unlovely  and  uninteresting; 
whom  she  petted  and  tended  and  waited  on  with  her 
eyes  as  if  he  had  been  Amadis  of  Gaul.  It  was  strange 
to  see  this  hulking  fellow  dog-sick,  and  this  delicate, 
sad  woman  caring  for  him.  He  seemed,  from  first  to 
last,  insensible  of  her  caresses  and  attentions,  and  she 
seemed  unconscious  of  his  insensibility.  The  Irish  hus- 
band, who  sang  his  wife  to  sleep,  and  this  Scottish  girl 
serving  her  Orson,  were  the  two  bits  of  human  nature 
that  most  appealed  to  me  throughout  the  voyage. 

6^ 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

On  the  Thursday  before  we  arrived,  the  tickets  were 
collected;  and  soon  a  rumour  began  to  go  round  the 
vessel ;  and  this  girl,  with  her  bit  of  sealskin  cap,  became 
the  centre  of  whispering  and  pointed  fingers.  She  also, 
it  was  said,  was  a  stowaway  of  a  sort;  for  she  was 
on  board  with  neither  ticket  nor  money ;  and  the  man 
with  whom  she  travelled  was  the  father  of  a  family, 
who  had  left  wife  and  children  to  be  hers.  The  ship's 
officers  discouraged  the  story,  which  may  therefore  have 
been  a  story  and  no  more ;  but  it  was  believed  in  the 
steerage,  and  the  poor  girl  had  to  encounter  many  curi- 
ous eyes  from  that  day  forth. 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND  REVIEW 

Travel  is  of  two  kinds;  and  this  voyage  of  mine 
across  the  ocean  combined  both.  ''  Out  of  my  country 
and  myself  I  go,"  sings  the  old  poet:  and  I  was  not 
only  travelling  out  of  my  country  in  latitude  and  longi- 
tude, but  out  of  myself  in  diet,  associates,  and  con- 
sideration. Part  of  the  interest  and  a  great  deal  of  the 
amusement  flowed,  at  least  to  me,  from  this  novel  sit- 
uation in  the  world. 

I  found  that  I  had  what  they  call  fallen  in  life  with 
absolute  success  and  verisimilitude.  I  was  taken  for  a 
steerage  passenger;  no  one  seemed  surprised  that  I 
should  be  so;  and  there  was  nothing  but  the  brass 
plate  between  decks  to  remind  me  that  I  had  once  been 
a  gentleman.  In  a  former  book,  describing  a  former 
journey,  I  expressed  some  wonder  that  I  could  be 
readily  and  naturally  taken  for  a  pedlar,  and  explained 
the  accident  by  the  difference  of  language  and  manners 
between  England  and  France.  I  must  now  take  a 
humbler  view;  for  here  I  was  among  my  own  coun- 
trymen, somewhat  roughly  clad,  to  be  sure,  but  with 
every  advantage  of  speech  and  manner;  and  I  am  bound 
to  confess  that  I  passed  for  nearly  anything  you  please 
except  an  educated  gentleman.     The  sailors  called  me 

69 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

**mate,"  the  officers  addressed  me  as  ''my  man,"  my 
comrades  accepted  me  without  hesitation  for  a  person 
of  their  own  character  and  experience,  but  with  some 
curious  information.  One,  a  mason  himself,  believed 
I  was  a  mason ;  several,  and  among  these  at  least  one 
of  the  seamen,  judged  me  to  be  a  petty  officer  in  the 
American  navy;  and  I  was  so  often  set  down  for  a  prac- 
tical engineer  that  at  last  I  had  not  the  heart  to  deny  it. 
From  all  these  guesses  I  drew  one  conclusion,  which 
told  against  the  insight  of  my  companions.  They  might 
be  close  observers  in  their  own  way,  and  read  the  man- 
ners in  the  face ;  but  it  was  plain  that  they  did  not  ex- 
tend their  observation  to  the  hands. 

To  the  saloon  passengers  also  I  sustained  my  part 
without  a  hitch.  It  is  true  I  came  little  in  their  way ; 
but  when  we  did  encounter,  there  was  no  recognition 
in  their  eye,  although  I  confess  I  sometimes  courted  it 
in  silence.  All  these,  my  inferiors  and  equals,  took  me, 
like  the  transformed  monarch  in  the  story,  for  a  mere 
common,  human  man.  They  gave  me  a  hard,  dead 
look,  with  the  flesh  about  the  eye  kept  unrelaxed. 

With  the  women  this  surprised  me  less,  as  I  had 
already  experimented  on  the  sex  by  going  abroad  through 
a  suburban  part  of  London  simply  attired  in  a  sleeve- 
waistcoat.  The  result  was  curious.  I  then  learned  for 
the  first  time,  and  by  the  exhaustive  process,  how  much 
attention  ladies  are  accustomed  to  bestow  on  all  male 
creatures  of  their  own  station ;  for,  in  my  humble  rig, 
each  one  who  went  by  me  caused  me  a  certain  shock 
of  surprise  and  a  sense  of  something  wanting.  In  my 
normal  circumstances,  it  appeared  every  young  lady 
must  have  paid  me  some  tribute  of  a  glance ;  and  though 

70 


PERSONAL   EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

I  had  often  not  detected  it  when  it  was  given,  I  was 
well  aware  of  its  absence  when  it  was  withheld.  My 
height  seemed  to  decrease  with  every  woman  who 
passed  me,  for  she  passed  me  like  a  dog.  This  is  one 
of  my  grounds  for  supposing  that  what  are  called  the 
upper  classes  may  sometimes  produce  a  disagreeable 
impression  in  what  are  called  the  lower;  and  I  wish 
some  one  would  continue  my  experiment,  and  find  out 
exactly  at  what  stage  of  toilette  a  man  becomes  invisi- 
ble to  the  well-regulated  female  eye. 

Here  on  shipboard  the  matter  was  put  to  a  more  com- 
plete test;  for,  even  with  the  addition  of  speech  and 
manner,  I  passed  among  the  ladies  for  precisely  the 
average  man  of  the  steerage.  It  was  one  afternoon  that 
I  saw  this  demonstrated.  A  very  plainly  dressed  woman 
was  taken  ill  on  deck.  I  think  I  had  the  luck  to  be  pres- 
ent at  every  sudden  seizure  during  all  the  passage;  and 
on  this  occasion  found  myself  in  the  place  of  importance, 
supporting  the  sufferer.  There  was  not  only  a  large 
crowd  immediately  around  us,  but  a  considerable  knot 
of  saloon  passengers  leaning  over  our  heads  from  the 
hurricane-deck.  One  of  these,  an  elderly  managing 
woman,  hailed  me  with  counsels.  Of  course  I  had  to 
reply ;  and  as  the  talk  went  on,  I  began  to  discover  that 
the  whole  group  took  me  for  the  husband.  I  looked 
upon  my  new  wife,  poor  creature,  with  mingled  feel- 
ings ;  and  I  must  own  she  had  not  even  the  appearance 
of  the  poorest  class  of  city  servant-maids,  but  looked 
more  like  a  country  wench  who  should  have  been  em- 
ployed at  a  roadside  inn.  Now  was  the  time  for  me  to 
go  and  study  the  brass  plate. 

To  such  of  the  officers  as  knew  about  me — the  doc- 

7» 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

tor,  the  purser,  and  the  stewards  —  I  appeared  in  the 
light  of  a  broad  joke.  The  fact  that  I  spent  the  better 
part  of  my  day  in  writing  had  gone  abroad  over  the 
ship  and  tickled  them  all  prodigiously.  Whenever  they 
met  me  they  referred  to  my  absurd  occupation  with 
familiarity  and  breadth  of  humorous  intention.  Their 
manner  was  well  calculated  to  remind  me  of  my  fallen 
fortunes.  You  may  be  sincerely  amused  by  the  amateur 
literary  efforts  of  a  gentleman,  but  you  scarce  publish 
the  feeling  to  his  face.  "  Well ! "  they  would  say :  ''still 
writing.?"  And  the  smile  would  widen  into  a  laugh. 
The  purser  came  one  day  into  the  cabin,  and,  touched 
to  the  heart  by  my  misguided  industry,  offered  me  some 
other  kind  of  writing,  "for  which,"  he  added  pointedly, 
' '  you  will  be  paid. "  This  was  nothing  else  than  to  copy 
out  the  list  of  passengers. 

Another  trick  of  mine  which  told  against  my  reputa- 
tion was  my  choice  of  roosting-place  in  an  active 
draught  upon  the  cabin  floor.  I  was  openly  jeered  and 
flouted  for  this  eccentricity;  and  a  considerable  knot 
would  sometimes  gather  at  the  door  to  see  my  last  dis- 
positions for  the  night.  This  was  embarrassing,  but  I 
learned  to  support  the  trial  with  equanimity. 

Indeed  I  may  say  that,  upon  the  whole,  my  new  posi- 
tion sat  lightly  and  naturally  upon  my  spirits.  I  ac- 
cepted the  consequences  with  readiness,  and  found 
them  far  from  difficult  to  bear.  The  steerage  conquered 
me;  I  conformed  more  and  more  to  the  type  of  the 
place,  not  only  in  manner  but  at  heart,  growing  hostile 
to  the  officers  and  cabin  passengers  who  looked  down 
upon  me,  and  day  by  day  greedier  for  small  delicacies. 
Such  was  the  result,  as  I  fancy,  of  a  diet  of  bread  and 

72 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

butter,  soup  and  porridge.  We  think  we  have  no  sweet 
tooth  as  long  as  we  are  full  to  the  brim  of  molasses ;  but 
a  man  must  have  sojourned  in  the  workhouse  before  he 
boasts  himself  indifferent  to  dainties.  Every  evening, 
for  instance,  I  was  more  and  more  preoccupied  about 
our  doubtful  fare  at  tea.  If  it  was  delicate  my  heart  was 
much  lightened ;  if  it  was  but  broken  fish  I  was  propor- 
tionally downcast.  The  offer  of  a  little  jelly  from  a 
fellow-passenger  more  provident  than  myself  caused  a 
marked  elevation  in  my  spirits.  And  I  would  have  gone 
to  the  ship's  end  and  back  again  for  an  oyster  or  a 
chipped  fruit. 

In  other  ways  I  was  content  with  my  position.  It 
seemed  no  disgrace  to  be  confounded  with  my  company ; 
for  I  may  as  well  declare  at  once  I  found  their  manners 
as  gentle  and  becoming  as  those  of  any  other  class.  I 
do  not  mean  that  my  friends  could  have  sat  down 
without  embarrassment  and  laughable  disaster  at  the 
table  of  a  duke.  That  does  not  imply  an  inferiority  of 
breeding,  but  a  difference  of  usage.  Thus  I  flatter  my- 
self that  I  conducted  myself  well  among  my  fellow- 
passengers  ;  yet  my  most  ambitious  hope  is  not  to  have 
avoided  faults,  but  to  have  committed  as  few  as  possi- 
ble. I  know  too  well  that  my  tact  is  not  the  same  as 
their  tact,  and  that  my  habit  of  a  different  society  con- 
stituted, not  only  no  qualification,  but  a  positive  disa- 
bility to  move  easily  and  becomingly  in  this.  When 
Jones  complimented  me — because  I  ''managed  to  be- 
have very  pleasantly"  to  my  fellow -passengers,  was 
how  he  put  it  —  I  could  follow  the  thought  in  his  mind, 
and  knew  his  compliment  to  be  such  as  we  pay  foreign- 
ers on  their  proficiency  in  English.    I  dare  say  this  praise 

73 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

was  given  me  immediately  on  the  back  of  some  un- 
pardonable solecism,  which  had  led  him  to  review  my 
conduct  as  a  whole.  We  are  all  ready  to  laugh  at  the 
ploughman  among  lords ;  we  should  consider  also  the 
case  of  a  lord  among  the  ploughmen.  I  have  seen  a 
lawyer  in  the  house  of  a  Hebridean  fisherman;  and  I 
know,  but  nothing  will  induce  me  to  disclose,  which  of 
these  two  was  the  better  gentleman.  Some  of  our  finest 
behaviour,  though  it  looks  well  enough  from  the  boxes, 
may  seem  even  brutal  to  the  gallery.  We  boast  too 
often  manners  that  are  parochial  rather  than  universal ; 
that,  like  a  country  wine,  will  not  bear  transportation 
for  a  hundred  miles,  nor  from  the  parlour  to  the  kitchen. 
To  be  a  gentleman  is  to  be  one  all  the  world  over,  and 
in  every  relation  and  grade  of  society.  It  is  a  high  call- 
ing, to  which  a  man  must  first  be  born,  and  then  devote 
himself  for  life.  And,  unhappily,  the  manners  of  a  cer- 
tain so-called  upper  grade  have  a  kind  of  currency,  and 
meet  with  a  certain  external  acceptation  throughout  all 
the  others,  and  this  tends  to  keep  us  well  satisfied  with 
slight  acquirements  and  the  amateurish  accomplishments 
of  a  clique.  But  manners,  like  art,  should  be  human  and 
central. 

Some  of  my  fellow-passengers,  as  I  now  moved  among 
them  in  a  relation  of  equality,  seemed  to  me  excellent 
gentlemen.  They  were  not  rough,  nor  hasty,  nor  dis- 
putatious; debated  pleasantly,  differed  kindly;  were 
helpful,  gentle,  patient,  and  placid.  The  type  of  man- 
ners was  plain,  and  even  heavy;  there  was  little  to 
please  the  eye,  but  nothing  to  shock;  and  I  thought 
gentleness  lay  more  nearly  at  the  spring  of  behaviour 
than  in  many  more  ornate  and  delicate  societies.     I  say 

74 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

delicate,  where  I  cannot  say  refined ;  a  thing  may  be  fine, 
like  ironwork,  without  being  delicate,  like  lace.  There 
was  here  less  delicacy ;  the  skin  supported  more  cal- 
lously the  natural  surface  of  events,  the  mind  received 
more  bravely  the  crude  facts  of  human  existence;  but  I 
do  not  think  that  there  was  less  effective  refinement,  less 
consideration  for  others,  less  polite  suppression  of  self. 
I  speak  of  the  best  among  my  fellow-passengers ;  for  in 
the  steerage,  as  well  as  in  the  saloon,  there  is  a  mixture. 
Those,  then,  with  whom  I  found  myself  in  sympathy, 
and  of  whom  I  may  therefore  hope  to  write  with  a 
greater  measure  of  truth,  were  not  only  as  good  in  their 
manners,  but  endowed  with  very  much  the  same  natural 
capacities,  and  about  as  wise  in  deduction,  as  the  bankers 
and  barristers  of  what  is  called  society.  One  and  all  were 
too  much  interested  in  disconnected  facts,  and  loved  in- 
formation for  its  own  sake  with  too  rash  a  devotion; 
but  people  in  all  classes  display  the  same  appetite  as 
they  gorge  themselves  daily  with  the  miscellaneous 
gossip  of  the  newspaper.  Newspaper  reading,  as  far  as 
I  can  make  out,  is  often  rather  a  sort  of  brown  study 
than  an  act  of  culture.  I  have  myself  palmed  off  yester- 
day's issue  on  a  friend,  and  seen  him  re-peruse  it  for  a 
continuance  of  minutes  with  an  air  at  once  refreshed 
and  solemn.  Workmen,  perhaps,  pay  more  attention ; 
but  though  they  may  be  eager  listeners,  they  have  rarely 
seemed  to  me  either  willing  or  careful  thinkers.  Cul- 
ture is  not  measured  by  the  greatness  of  the  field  which 
is  covered  by  our  knowledge,  but  by  the  nicety  with 
which  we  can  perceive  relations  in  that  field,  whether 
great  or  small.  Workmen,  certainly  those  who  were 
on  board  with  me,  I  found  wanting  in  this  quality  or 

75 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

habit  of  the  mind.  They  did  not  perceive  relations,  but 
leaped  to  a  so-called  cause,  and  thought  the  problem 
settled.  Thus  the  cause  of  everything  in  England  was 
the  form  of  government,  and  the  cure  for  all  evils  was, 
by  consequence,  a  revolution.  It  is  surprising  how 
many  of  them  said  this,  and  that  none  should  have  had 
a  definite  thought  in  his  head  as  he  said  it.  Some  hated 
the  Church  because  they  disagreed  with  it;  some  hated 
Lord  Beaconsfield  because  of  war  and  taxes ;  all  hated  the 
masters,  possibly  with  reason.  But  these  feelings  were 
not  at  the  root  of  the  matter ;  the  true  reasoning  of  their 
souls  ran  thus  —  1  have  not  got  on ;  I  ought  to  have  got 
on;  if  there  was  a  revolution  I  should  get  on.  How.^ 
They  had  no  idea.  Why.?^  Because — because — well, 
look  at  America ! 

To  be  politically  blind  is  no  distinction;  we  are  all 
so,  if  you  come  to  that.  At  bottom,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
there  is  but  one  question  in  modern  home  politics, 
though  it  appears  in  many  shapes,  and  that  is  the 
question  of  money ;  and  but  one  political  remedy,  that 
the  people  should  grow  wiser  and  better.  My  work- 
men fellow-passengers  were  as  impatient  and  dull  of 
hearing  on  the  second  of  these  points  as  any  member 
of  Parliament;  but  they  had  some  glimmerings  of  the 
first.  They  would  not  hear  of  improvement  on  their 
part,  but  wished  the  world  made  over  again  in  a  crack, 
so  that  they  might  remain  improvident  and  idle  and 
debauched,  and  yet  enjoy  the  comfort  and  respect  that 
should  accompany  the  opposite  virtues;  and  it  was  in 
this  expectation,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  that  many  of 
them  were  now  on  their  way  to  America.  But  on  the 
point  of  money  they  saw  clearly  enough  that  inland 

76 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

politics,  SO  far  as  they  were  concerned,  were  reducible 
to  the  question  of  annual  income;  a  question  which 
should  long  ago  have  been  settled  by  a  revolution,  they 
did  not  know  how,  and  which  they  were  now  about 
to  settle  for  themselves,  once  more  they  knew  not  how, 
by  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  a  steamship  of  considerable 
tonnage. 

And  yet  it  has  been  amply  shown  them  that  the  sec- 
ond or  income  question  is  in  itself  nothing,  and  may  as 
well  be  left  undecided,  if  there  be  no  wisdom  and  vir- 
tue to  profit  by  the  change.  It  is  not  by  a  man's  purse, 
but  by  his  character,  that  he  is  rich  or  poor.  Barney 
will  be  poor,  Alick  will  be  poor,  Mackay  will  be  poor; 
let  them  go  where  they  will,  and  wreck  all  the  govern- 
ments under  heaven,  they  will  be  poor  until  they  die. 

Nothing  is  perhaps  more  notable  in  the  average 
workman  than  his  surprising  idleness,  and  the  candour 
with  which  he  confesses  to  the  failing.  It  has  to  me 
been  always  something  of  a  relief  to  find  the  poor,  as  a 
general  rule,  so  little  oppressed  with  work.  I  can  in 
consequence  enjoy  my  own  more  fortunate  beginning 
with  a  better  grace.  The  other  day  I  was  living  with 
a  farmer  in  America,  an  old  frontiersman,  who  had 
worked  and  fought,  hunted  and  farmed,  from  his  child- 
hood up.  He  excused  himself  for  his  defective  educa- 
tion on  the  ground  that  he  had  been  overworked  from 
first  to  last.  Even  now,  he  said,  anxious  as  he  was, 
he  had  never  the  time  to  take  up  a  book.  In  conse- 
quence of  this,  I  observed  him  closely ;  he  was  occupied 
for  four  or,  at  the  extreme  outside,  for  five  hours  out  of 
the  twenty-four,  and  then  principally  in  walking;  and 
the  remainder  of  the  day  he  passed  in  born  idleness, 

77 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

either  eating  fruit  or  standing  with  his  back  against  a 
door.  I  have  known  men  do  hard  literary  work  all 
morning,  and  then  undergo  quite  as  much  physical  fa- 
tigue by  way  of  relief  as  satisfied  this  powerful  frontiers- 
man for  the  day.  He,  at  least,  like  all  the  educated 
class,  did  so  much  homage  to  industry  as  to  persuade 
himself  he  was  industrious.  But  the  average  mechanic 
recognises  his  idleness  with  effrontery ;  he  has  even,  as 
I  am  told,  organized  it. 

I  give  the  story  as  it  was  told  me,  and  it  was  told 
me  for  a  fact.  A  man  fell  from  a  housetop  in  the  city 
of  Aberdeen,  and  was  brought  into  hospital  with  broken 
bones.  He  was  asked  what  was  his  trade,  and  replied 
that  he  was  a  tapper.  No  one  had  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing  before ;  the  officials  were  filled  with  curiosity ; 
they  besought  an  explanation.  It  appeared  that  when  a 
party  of  slaters  were  engaged  upon  a  roof,  they  would 
now  and  then  be  taken  with  a  fancy  for  the  public- 
house.  Now  a  seamstress,  for  example,  might  slip 
away  from  her  work  and  no  one  be  the  wiser;  but  if 
these  fellows  adjourned,  the  tapping  of  the  mallets 
would  cease,  and  thus  the  neighbourhood  be  advertised 
of  their  defection.  Hence  the  career  of  the  tapper.  He 
has  to  do  the  tapping  and  keep  up  an  industrious  bus- 
tle on  the  housetop  during  the  absence  of  the  slaters. 
When  he  taps  for  only  one  or  two  the  thing  is  child's- 
play,  but  when  he  has  to  represent  a  whole  troop,  it  is 
then  that  he  earns  his  money  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
Then  must  he  bound  from  spot  to  spot,  reduplicate, 
triplicate,  sexduplicate  his  single  personality,  and  swell 
and  hasten  his  blows,  until  he  produce  a  perfect  illusion 
for  the  ear,  and  you  would  swear  that  a  crowd  of  emu- 

78 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

lous  masons  were  continuing  merrily  to  roof  the  house. 
It  must  be  a  strange  sight  from  an  upper  window. 

I  heard  nothing  on  board  of  the  tapper;  but  I  was  as- 
tonished at  the  stories  told  by  my  companions.  Skulk- 
ing, shirking,  malingering,  were  all  established  tactics, 
it  appeared.  They  could  see  no  dishonesty  where  a 
man  who  is  paid  for  an  hour's  work  gives  half  an  hour's 
consistent  idling  in  its  place.  Thus  the  tapper  would 
refuse  to  watch  for  the  police  during  a  burglary,  and  call 
himself  an  honest  man.  It  is  not  sufficiently  recognised 
that  our  race  detests  to  work.  If  I  thought  that  I  should 
have  to  work  every  day  of  my  life  as  hard  as  I  am  work- 
ing now,  I  should  be  tempted  to  give  up  the  struggle. 
And  the  workman  early  begins  on  his  career  of  toil.  He 
has  never  had  his  fill  of  holidays  in  the  past,  and  his 
prospect  of  holidays  in  the  future  is  both  distant  and  un- 
certain. In  the  circumstances,  it  would  require  a  high 
degree  of  virtue  not  to  snatch  alleviations  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

There  were  many  good  talkers  on  the  ship ;  and  1  be- 
lieve good  talking  of  a  certain  sort  is  a  common  accom- 
plishment among  working  men.  Where  books  are 
comparatively  scarce,  a  greater  amount  of  information 
will  be  given  and  received  by  word  of  mouth;  and  this 
tends  to  produce  good  talkers,  and,  what  is  no  less  need- 
ful for  conversation,  good  listeners.  They  could  all  tell 
a  story  with  effect.  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to  think 
that  the  less  literary  class  show  always  better  in  narra- 
tion ;  they  have  so  much  more  patience  with  detail,  are 
so  much  less  hurried  to  reach  the  points,  and  preserve 
so  much  juster  a  proportion  among  the  facts.  At  the 
same  time  their  talk  is  dry;  they  pursue  a  topic  plod- 

79 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

dingly,  have  not  an  agile  fancy,  do  not  throw  sudden 
lights  from  unexpected  quarters,  and  when  the  talk  is 
over  they  often  leave  the  matter  where  it  was.  They 
mark  time  instead  of  marching.  They  think  only  to 
argue,  not  to  reach  new  conclusions,  and  use  their  rea- 
son rather  as  a  weapon  of  offence  than  as  a  tool  for  self- 
improvement.  Hence  the  talk  of  some  of  the  cleverest 
was  unprofitable  in  result,  because  there  was  no  give 
and  take;  they  would  grant  you  as  little  as  possible  for 
premise,  and  begin  to  dispute  under  an  oath  to  conquer 
or  to  die. 

But  the  talk  of  a  workman  is  apt  to  be  more  interest- 
ing than  that  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  because  the 
thoughts,  hopes,  and  fears  of  which  the  workman's  life 
is  built  lie  nearer  to  necessity  and  nature.  They  are 
more  immediate  to  human  life.  An  income  calculated 
by  the  week  is  a  far  more  human  thing  than  one  calcu- 
lated by  the  year,  and  a  small  income,  simply  from  its 
smallness,  than  a  large  one.  I  never  wearied  listening 
to  the  details  of  a  workman's  economy,  because  every 
item  stood  for  some  real  pleasure.  If  he  could  afford 
pudding  twice  a  week,  you  know  that  twice  a  week 
the  man  ate  with  genuine  gusto  and  was  physically 
happy ;  while  if  you  learn  that  a  rich  man  has  seven 
courses  a  day,  ten  to  one  the  half  of  them  remain  un- 
tasted,  and  the  whole  is  but  misspent  money  and  a 
weariness  to  the  flesh. 

The  difference  between  England  and  America  to  a 
working  man  was  thus  most  humanly  put  to  me  by  a  fel- 
low-passenger:  "In  America,  "said  he,  ''you  get  pies  and 
puddings."  I  do  not  hear  enough,  in  economy  books, 
of  pies  and  pudding.     A  man  lives  in  and  for  the  deli- 

80 


PERSONAL  EXPERIENCE  AND   REVIEW 

cacies,  adornments,  and  accidental  attributes  of  life,  such 
as  pudding  to  eat  and  pleasant  books  and  theatres  to 
occupy  his  leisure.  The  bare  terms  of  existence  would 
be  rejected  with  contempt  by  all.  If  a  man  feeds  on 
bread  and  butter,  soup  and  porridge,  his  appetite  grows 
wolfish  after  dainties.  And  the  workman  dwells  in  a 
borderland,  and  is  always  within  sight  of  those  cheer- 
less regions  where  life  is  more  difficult  to  sustain  than 
worth  sustaining.  Every  detail  of  our  existence,  where 
it  is  worth  while  to  cross  the  ocean  after  pie  and  pud- 
ding, is  made  alive  and  enthralling  by  the  presence  of 
genuine  desire ;  but  it  is  all  one  to  me  whether  Croesus  has 
a  hundred  or  a  thousand  thousands  in  the  bank.  There 
is  more  adventure  in  the  life  of  the  working  man  who 
descends  as  a  common  soldier  into  the  battle  of  life,  than 
in  that  of  the  millionaire  who  sits  apart  in  an  office,  like 
Von  Moltke,  and  only  directs  the  manoeuvres  by  tele- 
graph. Give  me  to  hear  about  the  career  of  him  who  is 
in  the  thick  of  the  business ;  to  whom  one  change  of 
market  means  an  empty  belly,  and  another  a  copious 
and  savoury  meal.  This  is  not  the  philosophical,  but 
the  human  side  of  economics;  it  interests  like  a  story; 
and  the  life  of  all  who  are  thus  situated  partakes  in  a 
small  way  of  the  charm  of  Robinson  Crusoe;  for  every 
step  is  critical,  and  human  life  is  presented  to  you  naked 
and  verging  to  its  lowest  terms. 


Si 


NEW  YORK 

As  we  drew  near  to  New  York  I  was  at  first  amused, 
and  then  somewhat  staggered,  by  the  cautious  and  the 
grisly  tales  that  went  the  round.  You  would  have 
thought  we  were  to  land  upon  a  cannibal  island.  You 
must  speak  to  no  one  in  the  streets,  as  they  would  not 
leave  you  till  you  were  rooked  and  beaten.  You  must 
enter  a  hotel  with  military  precautions ;  for  the  least  you 
had  to  apprehend  was  to  awake  next  morning  without 
money  or  baggage,  or  necessary  raiment,  a  lone  forked 
radish  in  a  bed;  and  if  the  worst  befell,  you  would  in- 
stantly and  mysteriously  disappear  from  the  ranks  of 
mankind. 

I  have  usually  found  such  stories  correspond  to  the 
least  modicum  of  fact.  Thus  I  was  warned,  I  remem- 
ber, against  the  roadside  inns  of  the  Cevennes,  and  that 
by  a  learned  professor ;  and  when  I  reached  Pradelles 
the  warning  was  explained  —  it  was  but  the  far-away 
rumour  and  reduplication  of  a  single  terrifying  story 
already  half  a  century  old,  and  half  forgotten  in  the  the- 
atre of  the  events.  So  I  was  tempted  to  make  light  of 
these  reports  against  America.  But  we  had  on  board 
with  us  a  man  whose  evidence  it  would  not  do  to  put 
aside.     He  had  come  near  these  perils  in  the  body;  he 

82 


NEW   YORK 

had  visited  a  robber  inn.  The  public  has  an  old  and 
well-grounded  favour  for  this  class  of  incident,  and  shall 
be  gratified  to  the  best  of  my  power. 

My  fellow-passenger,  whom  we  shall  call  M'Naugh- 
ten,  had  come  from  New  York  to  Boston  with  a  com- 
rade, seeking  work.  They  were  a  pair  of  rattling  blades ; 
and,  leaving  their  baggage  at  the  station,  passed  the  day 
in  beer-saloons,  and  with  congenial  spirits,  until  mid- 
night struck.  Then  they  applied  themselves  to  find  a 
lodging,  and  walked  the  streets  till  two,  knocking  at 
houses  of  entertainment  and  being  refused  admittance, 
or  themselves  declining  the  terms.  By  two  the  inspira- 
tion of  their  liquor  had  begun  to  wear  off;  they  were 
weary  and  humble,  and  after  a  great  circuit  found  them- 
selves in  the  same  street  where  they  had  begun  their 
search,  and  in  front  of  a  French  hotel  where  they  had 
already  sought  accommodation.  Seeing  -^e  house  still 
open,  they  returned  to  the  charge.  A  man  in  a  white  cap 
sat  in  an  office  by  the  door.  He  seemed  to  welcome  them 
more  warmly  than  when  they  had  first  presented  them- 
selves, and  the  charge  for  the  night  had  somewhat  unac- 
countably fallen  from  a  dollar  to  a  quarter.  They  thought 
him  ill-looking,  but  paid  their  quarter  apiece,  and  were 
shown  upstairs  to  the  top  of  the  house.  There,  in  a 
small  room,  the  man  in  the  white  cap  wished  them 
pleasant  slumbers. 

It  was  furnished  with  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  some  con- 
veniences. The  door  did  not  lock  on  the  inside;  and 
the  only  sign  of  adornment  was  a  couple  of  framed  pic- 
tures, one  close  above  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  the 
other  'opposite  the  foot,  and  both  curtained,  as  we  may 
sometimes  see  valuable  water-colours,  or  the  portraits 

S5 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

of  the  dead,  or  works  of  art  more  than  usually  skittish 
in  the  subject.  It  was  perhaps  in  the  hope  of  finding 
something  of  this  last  description  that  M'Naughten's 
comrade  pulled  aside  the  curtain  of  the  first.  He  was 
startlingly  disappointed.  There  was  no  picture.  The 
frame  surrounded,  and  the  curtain  was  designed  to  hide, 
an  oblong  aperture  in  the  partition,  through  which  they 
looked  forth  into  the  dark  corridor.  A  person  standing 
without  could  easily  take  a  purse  from  under  the  pillow, 
or  even  strangle  a  sleeper  as  he  lay  abed.  M'Naughten 
and  his  comrade  stared  at  each  other  like  Vasco's  sea- 
men, ''with  a  wild  surmise;"  and  then  the  latter, 
catching  up  the  lamp,  ran  to  the  other  frame  and 
roughly  raised  the  curtain.  There  he  stood,  petrified; 
and  M'Naughten,  who  had  followed,  grasped  him  by 
the  wrist  in  terror.  They  could  see  into  another 
room,  larger  in  size  than  that  which  they  occupied, 
where  three  men  sat  crouching  and  silent  in  the  dark. 
For  a  second  or  so  these  five  persons  looked  each  other 
in  the  eyes,  then  the  curtain  was  dropped,  and  M'Naugh- 
ten  and  his  friend  made  but  one  bolt  of  it  out  of  the  room 
and  downstairs.  The  man  in  the  white  cap  said  noth- 
ing as  they  passed  him ;  and  they  were  so  pleased  to  be 
once  more  in  the  open  night  that  they  gave  up  all  notion 
of  a  bed,  and  walked  the  streets  of  Boston  till  the  morn- 
ing. 

No  one  seemed  much  cast  down  by  these  stories,  but 
all  inquired  after  the  address  of  a  respectable  hotel ;  and 
I,  for  my  part,  put  myself  under  the  conduct  of  Mr. 
Jones.  Before  noon  of  the  second  Sunday  we  sighted 
the  low  shores  outside  of  New  York  harbour ;  the  steer- 
age passengers  must  remain  on  board  to  pass  through 

84 


NEW  YORK 

Castle  Garden  on  the  following  morning ;  but  we  of  the 
second  cabin  made  our  escape  along  with  the  lords  of 
the  saloon ;  and  by  six  o'clock  Jones  and  I  issued  into 
West  Street,  sitting  on  some  straw  in  the  bottom  of  an 
open  baggage-wagon.  It  rained  miraculously ;  and  from 
that  moment  till  on  the  following  night  I  left  New  York, 
there  was  scarce  a  lull,  and  no  cessation  of  the  down- 
pour. The  roadways  were  flooded;  a  loud  strident 
noise  of  falling  water  filled  the  air ;  the  restaurants  smelt 
heavily  of  wet  people  and  wet  clothing. 

It  took  us  but  a  few  minutes,  though  it  cost  us  a  good 
deal  of  money,  to  be  rattled  along  West  Street  to  our 
destination:  ** Reunion  House,  No.  lo  West  Street,  one 
minute's  walk  from  Castle  Garden ;  convenient  to  Cas- 
tle Garden,  the  Steamboat  Landings,  California  Steam- 
ers and  Liverpool  Ships ;  Board  and  Lodging  per  day  i 
dollar,  single  meals  25  cents,  lodging  per  night  25  cents; 
private  rooms  for  families;  no  charge  for  storage  or 
baggage ;  satisfaction  guaranteed  to  all  persons ;  Michael 
Mitchell,  Proprietor."  Reunion  House  was,  I  may  go 
the  length  of  saying,  a  humble  hostelry.  You  entered 
through  a  long  bar-room,  thence  passed  into  a  little 
dining-room,  and  thence  into  a  still  smaller  kitchen. 
The  furniture  was  of  the  plainest;  but  the  bar  was  hung 
in  the  American  taste,  with  encouraging  and  hospitable 
mottoes. 

Jones  was  well  known;  we  were  received  warmly; 
and  two  minutes  afterwards  I  had  refused  a  drink  from 
the  proprietor,  and  was  going  on,  in  my  plain  European 
fashion,  to  refuse  a  cigar,  when  Mr.  Mitchell  sternly 
interposed,  and  explained  the  situation.  He  was  offer- 
ing to  treat  me,  it  appeared;  whenever  an  American 

85 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

bar-keeper  proposes  anything,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  he  is  offering  to  treat ;  and  if  I  did  not  want  a  drink, 
I  must  at  least  take  the  cigar.  I  took  it  bashfully,  feel- 
ing I  had  begun  my  American  career  on  the  wrong  foot. 
I  did  not  enjoy  that  cigar;  but  this  may  have  been  from 
a  variety  of  reasons,  even  the  best  cigar  often  failing  to 
please  if  you  ^moke  three-quarters  of  it  in  a  drenching 
rain. 

For  many  years  America  was  to  me  a  sort  of  prom- 
ised land;  ''westward  the  march  of  empire  holds  its 
way";  the  race  is  for  the  moment  to  the  young;  what 
has  been  and  what  is  we  imperfectly  and  obscurely 
know;  what  is  to  be  yet  lies  beyond  the  flight  of  our 
imaginations.  Greece,  Rome  and  Judaea  are  gone  by 
forever,  leaving  to  generations  the*  legacy  of  their  ac- 
complished work ;  China  still  endures,  an  old-inhabited 
house  in  the  brand-new  city  of  nations;  England  has 
already  declined,  since  she  has  lost  the  States ;  and  to 
these  States,  therefore,  yet  undeveloped,  full  of  dark 
possibilities,  and  grown,  like  another  Eve,  from  one  rib 
out  of  the  side  of  their  own  old  land,  the  minds  of 
young  men  in  England  turn  naturally  at  a  certain  hopeful 
period  of  their  age.  It  will  be  hard  for  an  American  to 
understand  the  spirit.  But  let  him  imagine  a  young 
man,  who  shall  have  grown  up  in  an  old  and  rigid  cir- 
cle, following  bygone  fashions  and  taught  to  distrust  his 
own  fresh  instincts,  and  who  now  suddenly  hears  of  a 
family  of  cousins,  all  about  his  own  age,  who  keep 
house  together  by  themselves  and  live  far  from  restraint 
and  tradition;  let  him  imagine  this,  and  he  will  have 
some  imperfect  notion  of  the  sentiment  with  which 
spirited  English  youths  turn  to  the  thought  of  the  Amer- 

86 


NEW   YORK 

ican  Republic.  It  seems  to  them  as  if,  out  west,  the  war 
of  life  was  still  conducted  in  the  open  air,  and  on  free 
barbaric  terms ;  as  if  it  had  not  yet  been  narrowed  into 
parlours,  nor  begun  to  be  conducted,  like  some  unjust 
and  dreary  arbitration,  by  compromise,  costume,  forms 
of  procedure,  and  sad,  senseless  self-denial.  Which  of 
these  two  he  prefers,  a  man  with  any  youth  still  left  in 
him  will  decide  rightly  for  himself.  He  would  rather 
be  houseless  than  denied  a  pass-key ;  rather  go  without 
food  than  partake  of  a  stalled  ox  in  stiff,  respectable 
society ;  rather  be  shot  out  of  hand  than  direct  his  life 
according  to  the  dictates  of  the  world. 

He  knows  or  thinks  nothing  of  the  Maine  Laws,  the 
Puritan  sourness,  the  fierce,  sordid  appetite  for  dollars, 
or  the  dreary  existence  of  country  towns.  A  few  wild 
story-books  which  delighted  his  childhood  form  the  im- 
aginative basis  of  his  picture  of  America.  In  course  of 
time,  there  is  added  to  this  a  great  crowd  of  stimulating 
details  —  vast  cities  that  grow  up  as  by  enchantment; 
the  birds,  that  have  gone  south  in  autumn,  returning 
with  the  spring  to  find  thousands  camped  upon  their 
marshes,  and  the  lamps  burning  far  and  near  along  pop- 
ulous streets ;  forests  that  disappear  like  snow ;  countries 
larger  than  Britain  that  are  cleared  and  settled,  one  man 
running  forth  with  his  household  gods  before  another, 
while  the  bear  and  the  Indian  are  yet  scarce  aware  of 
their  approach ;  oil  that  gushes  from  the  earth ;  gold  that 
is  washed  or  quarried  in  the  brooks  or  glens  of  the  Si- 
erras; and  all  that  bustle,  courage,  action,  and  constant 
kaleidoscopic  change  that  Walt  Whitman  has  seized  and 
set  forth  in  his  vigorous,  cheerful,  and  loquacious  verses. 

Here  I  was  at  last  in  America,  and  was  soon  out  upon 

87 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

New  York  streets,  spying  for  things  foreign.  The  place 
had  to  me  an  air  of  Liverpool ;  but  such  was  the  rain 
that  not  Paradise  itself  would  have  looked  inviting. 
We  were  a  party  of  four,  under  two  umbrellas ;  Jones 
and  I  and  two  Scots  lads,  recent  immigrants,  and  not 
indisposed  to  welcome  a  compatriot.  They  had  been 
six  weeks  in  New  York,  and  neither  of  them  had  yet 
found  a  single  job  or  earned  a  single  halfpenny.  Up  to 
the  present  they  were  exactly  out  of  pocket  by  the 
amount  of  the  fare. 

The  lads  soon  left  us.  Now  I  had  sworn  by  all  my 
gods  to  have  such  a  dinner  as  would  rouse  the  dead ; 
there  was  scarce  any  expense  at  which  I  should  have 
hesitated;  the  devil  was  in  it  but  Jones  and  I  should 
dine  like  heathen  emperors.  I  set  to  work,  asking  after 
a  restaurant ;  and  I  chose  the  wealthiest  and  most  gas- 
tronomical-looking  passers-by  to  ask  from.  Yet,  al- 
though I  had  told  them  I  was  willing  to  pay  anything 
in  reason,  one  and  all  sent  me  off  to  cheap,  fixed-price 
houses,  where  I  would  not  have  eaten  that  night  for  the 
cost  of  twenty  dinners.  I  do  not  know  if  this  were 
characteristic  of  New  York,  or  whether  it  was  only 
Jones  and  I  who  looked  un-dinerly  and  discouraged 
enterprising  suggestions.  But  at  length,  by  our  own 
sagacity,  we  found  a  French  restaurant,  where  there  was 
a  French  waiter,  some  fair  French  cooking,  some  so- 
called  French  wine,  and  French  cofTee  to  conclude  the 
whole.  I  never  entered  into  the  feelings  of  Jack  on  land 
so  completely  as  when  I  tasted  that  coffee. 

I  suppose  we  had  one  of  the  ''private  rooms  for  fam- 
ilies "  at  Reunion  House.  It  was  very  small,  furnished 
with  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  some  clothes-pegs ;  and  it  de- 

88 


NEW   YORK 

rived  all  that  was  necessary  for  the  life  of  the  human 
animal  through  two  borrowed  lights ;  one  looking  into 
the  passage,  and  the  second  opening,  without  sash,  into 
another  apartment,  where  three  men  fitfully  snored,  or 
in  intervals  of  wakefulness,  drearily  mumbled  to  each 
other  all  night  long.  It  will  be  observed  that  this  was 
almost  exactly  the  disposition  of  the  room  in  M'Naugh- 
ten's  story.  Jones  had  the  bed ;  I  pitched  my  camp  upon 
the  floor;  he  did  not  sleep  until  near  morning,  and  I,  for 
my  part,  never  closed  an  eye. 

At  sunrise  I  heard  a  cannon  fired ;  and  shortly  after- 
wards the  men  in  the  next  room  gave  over  snoring  for 
good,  and  began  to  rustle  over  their  toilettes.  The  sound 
of  their  voices  as  they  talked  was  low  and  moaning,  like 
that  of  people  watching  by  the  sick.  Jones,  who  had 
at  last  begun  to  doze,  tumbled  and  murmured,  and  every 
now  and  then  opened  unconscious  eyes  upon  me  wher^ 
I  lay.  1  found  myself  growing  eerier  and  eerier,  for  I 
daresay  I  was  a  little  fevered  by  my  restless  night,  and 
hurried  to  dress  and  get  downstairs. 

You  had  to  pass  through  the  rain,  which  still  fell 
thick  and  resonant,  to  reach  a  lavatory  on  the  other 
side  of  the  court.  There  were  three  basin-stands,  and 
a  few  crumpled  towels  and  pieces  of  wet  soap,  white 
and  slippery  like  fish;  nor  should  I  forget  a  looking- 
glass  and  a  pair  of  questionable  combs.  Another  Scots 
lad  was  here,  scrubbing  his  face  with  a  good  will.  He 
had  been  three  months  in  New  York  and  had  not  yet 
found  a  single  job  nor  earned  a  single  halfpenny.  Up 
to  the  present,  he  also  was  exactly  out  of  pocket  by  the 
amount  of  the  fare.  I  began  to  grow  sick  at  heart  for 
my  fellow-emigrants. 

89 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

Of  my  nightmare  wanderings  in  New  York  I  spare  to 
tell.  I  had  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  do ;  only  the 
day  to  do  them  in,  and  a  journey  across  the  continent 
before  me  in  the  evening.  It  rained  with  patient  fury ; 
every  now  and  then  I  had  to  get  under  cover  for  a 
while  in  order,  so  to  speak,  to  give  my  mackintosh  a 
rest;  for  under  this  continued  drenching  it  began  to 
grow  damp  on  the  inside.  I  went  to  banks,  post- 
offices,  railway-offices,  restaurants,  publishers,  book- 
sellers, money-changers,  and  wherever  I  went  a  pool 
would  gather  about  my  feet,  and  those  who  were  care- 
ful of  their  floors  would  look  on  with  an  unfriendly  eye. 
Wherever  I  went,  too,  the  same  traits  struck  me:  the 
people  were  all  surprisingly  rude  and  surprisingly  kind. 
The  money-changer  cross-questioned  me  like  a  French 
commissary,  asking  my  age,  my  business,  my  average 
income,  and  my  destination,  beating  down  my  at- 
tempts at  evasion,  and  receiving  my  answers  in  silence ; 
and  yet  when  all  was  over,  he  shook  hands  with  me 
up  to  the  elbows,  and  sent  his  lad  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  the  rain  to  get  me  books  at  a  reduction.  Again, 
in  a  very  large  publishing  and  bookselling  establish- 
ment, a  man,  who  seemed  to  be  the  manager,  received 
me  as  I  had  certainly  never  before  been  received  in  any 
human  shop,  indicated  squarely  that  he  put  no  faith  in 
my  honesty,  and  refused  to  look  up  the  names  of  books 
or  give  me  the  slightest  help  or  information,  on  the 
ground,  like  the  steward,  that  it  was  none  of  his  busi- 
ness. I  lost  my  temper  at  last,  said  I  was  a  stranger  in 
America  and  not  learned  in  their  etiquette;  but  1  would 
assure  him,  if  he  went  to  any  bookseller  in  England,  of 
more  handsome  usage.     The  boast  was  perhaps  ex- 


NEW   YORK 

aggerated;  but  like  many  a  long  shot,  it  struck  the 
gold.  The  manager  passed  at  once  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other;  I  may  say  that  from  that  moment  he 
loaded  me  with  kindness;  he  gave  me  all  sorts  of  good 
advice,  wrote  me  down  addresses,  and  came  bare- 
headed into  the  rain  to  point  me  out  a  restaurant,  where 
I  might  lunch,  nor  even  then  did  he  seem  to  think  that 
he  had  done  enough.  These  are  (it  is  as  well  to  be 
bold  in  statement)  the  manners  of  America.  It  is  this 
same  opposition  that  has  most  struck  me  in  people  of 
almost  all  classes  and  from  east  to  west.  By  the  time 
a  man  had  about  strung  me  up  to  be  the  death  of  him 
by  his  insulting  behaviour,  he  himself  would  be  just 
upon  the  point  of  melting  into  confidence  and  service- 
able attentions.  Yet  I  suspect,  although  I  have  met 
with  the  like  in  so  many  parts,  that  this  must  be  the 
character  of  some  particular  state  or  group  of  states ;  for 
in  America,  and  this  again  in  all  classes,  you  will  find 
some  of  the  softest-mannered  gentlemen  in  the  world. 
I  was  so  wet  when  I  got  back  to  Mitchell's  toward 
the  evening,  that  I  had  simply  to  divest  myself  of  my 
shoes,  socks  and  trousers,  and  leave  them  behind  for 
the  benefit  of  New  York  city.  No  fire  could  have  dried 
them  ere  I  had  to  start ;  and  to  pack  them  in  their  pres- 
ent condition  was  to  spread  ruin  among  my  other  pos- 
sessions. With  a  heavy  heart  I  said  farewell  to  them 
as  they  lay  a  pulp  in  the  middle  of  a  pool  upon  the  floor 
of  Mitchell's  kitchen.  I  wonder  if  they  are  dry  by  now. 
Mitchell  hired  a  man  to  carry  my  baggage  to  the  station, 
which  was  hard  by,  accompanied  me  thither  himself, 
and  recommended  me  to  the  particular  attention  of  the 
officials.    No  one  could  have  been  kinder.    Those  whe 

91 


THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT 

are  out  of  pocket  may  go  safely  to  Reunion  House, 
where  they  will  get  decent  meals  and  find  an  honest 
and  obliging  landlord.  I  owed  him  this  word  of 
thanks,  before  1  enter  fairly  on  the  second  and  far  less 
agreeable  chapter  of  my  emigrant  experience. 


92 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

WITH  OTHER  MEMORIES  AND  ESSAYS 


TO 
PAUL  BOURGET 


Traveller  and  student  and  curious  as  you  are,  you  will 
never  have  heard  the  name  of  Vailima,  most  likely 
not  even  that  of  Upolu,  and  Samoa  itself  may  be 
strange  to  your  ears.  To  these  barbaric  seats  there 
came  the  other  day  a  yellow  book  with  your  name 
on  the  title,  and  filled  in  every  page  with  the  exqui- 
site gifts  of  your  art.  Let  me  take  and  change  your 
own  words:  J'ai  beau  admirer  les  autresde  toutes 
mes  forces,  c'est  avec  vous  queje'me  complaisavivre, 

R.  L.  S. 

Vailima, 

Upolu, 
Samoa. 


LETTER  TO  THE  AUTHOR 


My  Dear  Stevenson: 

You  have  trusted  me  with  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  these  papers, 
written  before  you  departed  to  the  South  Seas,  and  have  asked  me 
to  add  a  preface  to  the  volume.  But  it  is  your  prose  the  public  wish 
to  read,  not  mine;  and  I  am  sure  they  will  willingly  be  spared  the 
preface.  Acknowledgments  are  due  in  your  name  to  the  publishers 
of  the  several  magazines  from  which  the  papers  are  collected,  viz. 
Fraser's,  Longman's,  the  Magazine  of  Art,  and  Scrihner's.  I  will 
only  add,  lest  any  reader  should  find  the  tone  of  the  concluding 
pieces  less  inspiriting  than  your  wont,  that  they  were  written  under 
circumstances  of  especial  gloom  and  sickness.  "I  agree  with  you 
the  lights  seem  a  little  turned  down,"  so  you  write  to  me  now; 
"the  truth  is  I  was  far  through,  and  came  none  to  soon  to  the  South 
Seas,  where  I  was  to  recover  peace  of  body  and  mind.  And  how- 
ever low  the  lights,  the  stuff  is  true.  ..."  Well,  inasmuch  as  the 
South  Sea  sirens  have  breathed  new  life  into  you,  we  are  bound  to  be 
heartily  grateful  to  them,  though  as  they  keep  you  so  far  removed  from 
us,  it  is  difficult  not  to  bear  them  a  grudge;  and  if  they  would  recon- 
cile us  quite,  they  have  but  to  do  two  things  more — to  teach  you 
new  tales  that  shall  charm  us  like  your  old,  and  to  spare  you,  at 
least  once  in  a  while  in  summer,  to  climates  within  reach  of  us  who 
are  task-bound  for  ten  months  in  the  year  beside  the  Thames. 

Yours  ever, 

SIDNEY  COLVIN. 
February,  1892. 


I.   ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

LEAVES   FROM    THE   NOTEBOOK    OF   AN    EMIGRANT    BETWEEN 
NEW   YORK   AND  SAN  FRANCISCO 

MONDAY. — It  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  five 
o'clock  when  we  were  all  signalled  to  be  present 
at  the  Ferry  Depot  of  the  railroad.  An  emigrant  ship 
had  arrived  at  New  York  on  the  Saturday  night,  another 
on  the  Sunday  morning,  our  own  on  Sunday  afternoon, 
a  fourth  early  on  Monday ;  and  as  there  is  no  emigrant 
train  on  Sunday,  a  great  part  of  the  passengers  from 
these  four  ships  was  concentrated  on  the  train  by  which 
I  was  to  travel.  There  was  a  babel  of  bewildered  men, 
women,  and  children.  The  wretched  little  booking 
office,  and  the  baggage-room,  which  was  not  much 
larger,  were  crowded  thick  with  emigrants,  and  were 
heavy  and  rank  with  the  atmosphere  of  dripping  clothes. 
Open  carts  full  of  bedding  stood  by  the  half-hour  in  the 
rain.  The  officials  loaded  each  other  with  recrimina- 
tions. A  bearded,  mildewed  little  man,  whom  I  take 
to  have  been  an  emigrant  agent,  was  all  over  the  place, 
his  mouth  full  of  brimstone,  blustering  and  interfering. 
It  was  plain  that  the  whole  system,  if  system  there  was, 
had  utterly  broken  down  under  the  strain  of  so  many 
passengers. 

My  own  ticket  was  given  me  at  once,  and  an  oldish 
man,  who  preserved  his  head  in  the  midst  of  this  tur- 

99 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

moil,  got  my  baggage  registered,  and  counselled  me  to 
stay  quietly  where  I  was  till  he  should  give  me  the 
word  to  move.  I  had  taken  along  with  me  a  small 
valise,  a  knapsack,  which  I  carried  on  my  shoulders, 
and  in  the  bag  of  my  railway  rug  the  whole  o^ Bancroft's 
History  of  the  United  States,  in  six  fat  volumes.  It  was 
as  much  as  I  could  carry  with  convenience  even  for  short 
distances,  but  it  insured  me  plenty  of  clothing,  and  the 
valise  was  at  that  moment,  and  often  after,  useful  for  a 
stool.  I  am  sure  I  sat  for  an  hour  in  the  baggage-room, 
and  wretched  enough  it  was ;  yet,  when  at  last  the  word 
was  passed  to  me  and  I  picked  up  my  bundles  and  got 
under  way,  it  was  only  to  exchange  discomfort  for 
downright  misery  and  danger. 

I  followed  the  porters  into  a  long  shed  reaching  down- 
hill from  West  Street  to  the  river.  It  was  dark,  the 
wind  blew  clean  through  it  from  end  to  end ;  and  here 
I  found  a  great  block  of  passengers  and  baggage,  hun- 
dreds of  one  and  tons  of  the  other.  I  feel  I  shall  have  a 
difficulty  to  make  myself  believed;  and  certainly  the 
scene  must  have  been  exceptional,  for  it  was  too  dan- 
gerous for  daily  repetition.  It  was  a  tight  jam ;  there 
was  no  fair  way  through  the  mingled  mass  of  brute  and 
living  obstruction.  Into  the  upper  skirts  of  the  crowd 
porters,  infuriated  by  hurry  and  overwork,  clove  their 
way  with  shouts.  I  may  say  that  we  stood  like  sheep, 
and  that  the  porters  charged  among  us  like  so  many 
maddened  sheep-dogs;  and  I  believe  these  men  were 
no  longer  answerable  for  their  acts.  It  mattered  not 
what  they  were  carrying,  they  drove  straight  into  the 
press,  and  when  they  could  get  no  farther,  blindly  dis- 
charged their  barrowful.     With  my  own  hand,  for  in- 

100 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

Stance,  I  saved  the  life  of  a  child  as  it  sat  upon  its 
mother's  knee,  she  sitting  on  a  box;  and  since  I  heard 
of  no  accident,  I  must  suppose  that  there  were  many 
similar  interpositions  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  It  will 
give  some  idea  of  the  state  of  mind  to  which  we  were  re- 
duced if  I  tell  you  that  neither  the  porter  nor  the  mother 
of  the  child  paid  the  least  attention  to  my  act.  It  was 
not  till  some  time  after  that  I  understood  what  I  had 
done  myself,  for  to  ward  off  heavy  boxes  seemed  at  the 
moment  a  natural  incident  of  human  life.  Cold,  wet, 
clamour,  dead  opposition  to  progress,  such  as  one  en- 
counters in  an  evil  dream,  had  utterly  daunted  the  spi- 
rits. We  had  accepted  this  purgatory  as  a  child  accepts 
the  conditions  of  the  world.  For  my  part,  I  shivered  a 
little,  and  my  back  ached  wearily;  but  I  believe  I  had 
neither  a  hope  nor  a  fear,  and  all  the  activities  of  my 
nature  had  become  tributary  to  one  massive  sensation 
of  discomfort. 

At  length,  and  after  how  long  an  interval  I  hesitate  to 
guess,  the  crowd  began  to  move,  heavily  straining 
through  itself.  About  the  same  time  some  lamps  were 
lighted,  and  threw  a  sudden  flare  over  the  shed.  We 
were  being  filtered  out  into  the  river  boat  for  Jersey  City. 
You  may  imagine  how  slowly  this  filtering  proceeded, 
through  the  dense,  choking  crush,  every  one  overladen 
with  packages  or  children,  and  yet  under  the  necessity 
of  fishing  out  his  ticket  by  the  way ;  but  it  ended  at 
length  for  me,  and  I  found  myself  on  deck  under  a  flimsy 
awning  and  with  a  trifle  of  elbow-room  to  stretch  and 
breathe  in.  This  was  on  the  starboard;  for  the  bulk  of 
the  emigrants  stuck  hopelessly  on  the  port  side,  by 
which  we  had  entered.     In  vain  the  seamen  shouted  to 

lOI 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

them  to  move  on,  and  threatened  them  with  shipwreck. 
These  poor  people  were  under  a  spell  of  stupor,  and  did 
not  stir  a  foot.  It  rained  as  heavily  as  ever,  but  the  wind 
now  came  in  sudden  claps  and  capfuls,  not  without 
danger  to  a  boat  so  badly  ballasted  as  ours;  and  we 
crept  over  the  river  in  the  darkness,  trailing  one  paddle 
in  the  water  like  a  wounded  duck,  and  passed  ever  and 
again  by  huge,  illuminated  steamers  running  many 
knots,  and  heralding  their  approach  by  strains  of  music. 
The  contrast  between  these  pleasure  embarkations  and 
our  own  grim  vessel,  with  her  list  to  port  and  her  freight 
of  wet  and  silent  emigrants,  was  of  that  glaring  de- 
scription which  we  count  too  obvious  for  the  purposes 
of  art. 

The  landing  at  Jersey  City  was  done  in  a  stampede. 
I  had  a  fixed  sense  of  calamity,  and  to  judge  by  con- 
duct, the  same  persuasion  was  common  to  us  all.  A 
panic  selfishness,  like  that  produced  by  fear,  presided 
over  the  disorder  of  our  landing.  People  pushed,  and 
elbowed,  and  ran,  the  families  following  how  they  could. 
Children  fell,  and  were  picked  up  to  be  rewarded  by  a 
blow.  One  child,  who  had  lost  her  parents,  screamed 
steadily  and  with  increasing  shrillness,  as  though  verg- 
ing towards  a  fit;  an  official  kept  her  by  him,  but  no  one 
else  seemed  so  much  as  to  remark  her  distress ;  and  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  ran  among  the  rest.  I  was  so 
weary  that  I  had  twice  to  make  a  halt  and  set  down  my 
bundles  in  the  hundred  yards  or  so  between  the  pier  and 
the  railway  station,  so  that  I  was  quite  wet  by  the  time 
that  I  got  under  cover.  There  was  no  waiting-room,  no 
refreshment  room ;  the  cars  were  locked ;  and  for  at  least 
another  hour,  or  so  it  seemed,  we  had  to  camp  upon 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

the  draughty,  gaslit  platform.  I  sat  on  my  valise,  too 
crushed  to  observe  my  neighbours ;  but  as  they  were  all 
cold,  and  wet,  and  weary,  and  driven  stupidly  crazy  by 
the  mismanagement  to  which  we  had  been  subjected,  I 
believe  they  can  have  been  no  happier  than  myself.  1 
bought  half  a  dozen  oranges  from  a  boy,  for  oranges  and 
nuts  were  the  only  refection  to  be  had.  As  only  two  of 
them  had  even  a  pretence  of  juice,  I  threw  the  other  four 
under  the  cars,  and  beheld,  as  in  a  dream,  grown  peo- 
ple and  children  groping  on  the  track  after  my  leavings. 

At  last  we  were  admitted  into  the  cars,  utterly  de- 
jected, and  far  from  dry.  For  my  own  part,  I  got  out  a 
clothes-brush,  and  brushed  my  trousers  as  hard  as  I 
could  till  I  had  dried  them  and  warmed  my  blood  into 
the  bargain ;  but  no  one  else,  except  my  next  neighbour 
to  whom  I  lent  the  brush,  appeared  to  take  the  least 
precaution.  As  they  were,  they  composed  themselves 
to  sleep.  1  had  seen  the  lights  of  Philadelphia,  and  been 
twice  ordered  to  change  carriages  and  twice  counter- 
manded, before  I  allowed  myself  to  follow  their  exam- 
ple. 

Tuesday, —  When  I  awoke,  it  was  already  day;  the 
train  was  standing  idle;  1  was  in  the  last  carriage,  and, 
seeing  some  others  strolling  to  and  fro  about  the  lines,  I 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  forth,  as  from  a  caravan  by 
the  wayside.  We  were  near  no  station,  nor  even,  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  within  reach  of  any  signal.  A  green, 
open,  undulating  country  stretched  away  upon  all  sides. 
Locust  trees  and  a  single  field  of  Indian  corn  gave  it  a 
foreign  grace  and  interest;  but  the  contours  of  the  land 
were  soft  and  English.  It  was  not  quite  England, 
neither  was  it  quite  France ;  yet  like  enough  either  to 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

seem  natural  in  my  eyes.  And  it  was  in  the  sky,  and 
not  upon  the  earth,  that  I  was  surprised  to  find  a  change. 
Explain  it  how  you  may,  and  for  my  part  I  cannot  ex- 
plain it  at  all,  the  sun  rises  with  a  different  splendour  in 
America  and  Europe.  There  is  more  clear  gold  and 
scarlet  in  our  old  country  mornings;  more  purple, 
brown,  and  smoky  orange  in  those  of  the  new.  It  may 
be  from  habit,  but  to  me  the  coming  of  day  is  less  fresh 
and  inspiriting  in  the  latter;  it  has  a  duskier  glory,  and 
more  nearly  resembles  sunset;  it  seems  to  fit  some  sub- 
sequential,  evening  epoch  of  the  world,  as  though 
America  were  in  fact,  and  not  merely  in  fancy,  farther 
from  the  orient  of  Aurora  and  the  springs  of  day.  I 
thought  so  then,  by  the  railroad  side  in  Pennsylvania, 
and  I  have  thought  so  a  dozen  times  since  in  far  distant 
parts  of  the  continent.  If  it  be  an  illusion  it  is  one 
very  deeply  rooted,  and  in  which  my  eyesight  is  ac- 
complice. 

Soon  after  a  train  whisked  by,  announcing  and  ac- 
companying its  passage  by  the  swift  beating  of  a  sort 
of  chapel  bell  upon  the  engine;  and  as  it  was  for  this 
we  had  been  waiting,  we  were  summoned  by  the  cry 
of ''All  aboard!"  and  went  on  again  upon  our  way. 
The  whole  line,  it  appeared,  was  topsy-turvy ;  an  acci- 
dent at  midnight  having  thrown  all  the  traffic  hours 
into  arrear.  We  paid  for  this  in  the  flesh,  for  we  had 
no  meals  all  that  day.  Fruit  we  could  buy  upon  the 
cars ;  and  now  and  then  we  had  a  few  minutes  at  some 
station  with  a  meagre  show  of  rolls  and  sandwiches  for 
sale ;  but  we  were  so  many  and  so  ravenous  that,  though 
I  tried  at  every  opportunity,  the  coffee  was  always  ex- 
hausted before  I  could  elbow  my  way  to  the  counter. 

104 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

Our  American  sunrise  had  ushered  in  a  noble  sum- 
mer's day.  There  was  not  a  cloud ;  the  sunshine  was 
baking;  yet  in  the  woody  river  valleys  among  which 
we  wound  our  way,  the  atmosphere  preserved  a  spark- 
ling freshness  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  It  had  an  in- 
land sweetness  and  variety  to  one  newly  from  the  sea ; 
it  smelt  of  woods,  rivers,  and  the  delved  earth.  These, 
though  in  so  far  a  country,  were  airs  from  home.  I 
stood  on  the  platform  by  the  hour;  and  as  I  saw,  one 
after  another,  pleasant  villages,  carts  upon  the  high- 
way and  fishers  by  the  stream,  and  heard  cockcrows 
and  cheery  voices  in  the  distance,  and  beheld  the  sun, 
no  longer  shining  blankly  on  the  plains  of  ocean,  but 
striking  among  shapely  hills  and  his  light  dispersed 
and  coloured  by  a  thousand  accidents  of  form  and  sur- 
face, I  began  to  exult  with  myself  upon  this  rise  in  life 
like  a  man  who  had  come  into  a  rich  estate.  And  when 
I  had  asked  the  name  of  a  river  from  the  brakesman, 
and  heard  that  it  was  called  the  Susquehanna,  the  beauty 
of  the  name  seemed  to  be  part  and  parcel  of  the  beauty 
of  the  land.  As  when  Adam  with  divine  fitness  named 
the  creatures,  so  this  word  Susquehanna  was  at  once 
accepted  by  the  fancy.  That  was  the  name,  as  no  other 
could  be,  for  that  shining  river  and  desirable  valley. 

None  can  care  for  literature  in  itself  who  do  not  take 
a  special  pleasure  in  the  sound  of  names ;  and  there  is 
no  part  of  the  world  where  nomenclature  is  so  rich, 
poetical,  humorous,  and  picturesque  as  the  United 
States  of  America.  All  times,  races,  and  languages  have 
brought  their  contribution.  Pekin  is  in  the  same  State  with 
Euclid,  with  Bellefontaine,  and  with  Sandusky.  Chel- 
sea, with  its  London  associations  of  red  brick,  Sloane 

105 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

Square,  and  the  King's  Road,  is  own  suburb  to  stately 
and  primeval  Memphis;  there  they  have  their  seat, 
translated  names  of  cities,  where  the  Mississippi  runs 
by  Tennessee  and  Arkansas;^  and  both,  while  I  was 
crossing  the  continent,  lay,  watched  by  armed  men,  in 
the  horror  and  isolation  of  a  plague.  Old,  red  Manhat- 
tan lies,  like  an  Indian  arrowhead  under  a  steam  fac- 
tory, below  anglified  New  York.  The  names  of  the 
States  and  Territories  themselves  form  a  chorus  of  sweet 
and  most  romantic  vocables :  Delaware,  Ohio,  Indiana, 
Florida,  Dakota,  Iowa,  Wyoming,  Minnesota,  and  the 
Carolinas ;  there  are  few  poems  with  a  nobler  music  for 
the  ear:  a  songful,  tuneful  land;  and  if  the  new  Homer 
shall  arise  from  the  Western  continent,  his  verse  will 
be  enriched,  his  pages  sing  spontaneously,  with  the 
names  of  states  and  cities  that  would  strike  the  fancy 
in  a  business  circular. 

Late  in  the  evening  we  were  landed  in  a  waiting- 
room  at  Pittsburg.  I  had  now  under  my  charge  a 
young  and  sprightly  Dutch  widow  with  her  children ; 
these  I  was  to  watch  over  providentially  for  a  certain 
distance  farther  on  the  way;  but  as  I  found  she  was 
furnished  with  a  basket  of  eatables,  I  left  her  in  the 
waiting-room  to  seek  a  dinner  for  myself 

I  mention  this  meal,  not  only  because  it  was  the  first 
of  which  I  had  partaken  for  about  thirty  hours,  but  be- 
cause it  was  the  means  of  my  first  introduction  to  a 
coloured  gentleman.  He  did  me  the  honour  to  wait 
upon  me  after  a  fashion,  while  1  was  eating;  and  with 
every  word,  look,  and  gesture  marched  me  farther  into 
the  country  of  surprise.     He  was  indeed  strikingly  un- 

1  Please  pronounce  Arkansaw,  with  the  accent  on  the  first. 
106 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

like  the  negroes  of  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe,  or  the  Christy- 
Minstrels  of  my  youth.  Imagine  a  gentleman,  certainly 
somewhat  dark,  but  of  a  pleasant  warm  hue,  speaking 
English  with  a  slight  and  rather  odd  foreign  accent, 
every  inch  a  man  of  the  world,  and  armed  with  man- 
ners so  patronisingly  superior  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
name  their  parallel  in  England.  A  butler  perhaps  rides 
as  high  over  the  unbutlered,  but  then  he  sets  you  right 
with  a  reserve  and  a  sort  of  sighing  patience  which  one 
is  often  moved  to  admire.  And  again,  the  abstract 
butler  never  stoops  to  familiarity.  But  the  coloured 
gentleman  will  pass  you  a  wink  at  a  time ;  he  is  familiar 
like  an  upper  form  boy  to  a  fag;  he  unbends  to  you  like 
Prince  Hal  with  Poins  and  FalstafF.  He  makes  himself 
at  home  and  welcome.  Indeed,  I  may  say,  this  waiter 
behaved  himself  to  me  throughout  that  supper  much  as, 
with  us,  a  young,  free,  and  not  very  self-respecting 
master  might  behave  to  a  good-looking  chambermaid. 
I  had  come  prepared  to  pity  the  poor  negro,  to  put  him 
at  his  ease,  to  prove  in  a  thousand  condescensions  that 
I  was  no  sharer  in  the  prejudice  of  race;  but  I  assure 
you  I  put  my  patronage  away  for  another  occasion,  and 
had  the  grace  to  be  pleased  with  that  result. 

Seeing  he  was  a  very  honest  fellow,  I  consulted  him 
upon  a  point  of  etiquette :  if  one  should  offer  to  tip  the 
American  waiter  ?  Certainly  not,  he  told  me.  Never. 
It  would  not  do.  They  considered  themselves  too 
highly  to  accept.  They  would  even  resent  the  offer.  As 
for  him  and  me,  we  had  enjoyed  a  very  pleasant  con- 
versation ;  he,  in  particular,  had  found  much  pleasure  in 
my  society ;  1  was  a  stranger ;  this  was  exactly  one  of 
those  rare  conjunctures.  .  .  .    Without  being  very  clear 

107 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

seeing,  I  can  still  perceive  the  sun  at  noonday ;  and  the 
coloured  gentleman  deftly  pocketed  a  quarter. 

Wednesday.  —  A  little  after  midnight  I  convoyed  my 
widow  and  orphans  on  board  the  train;  and  morning 
found  us  far  into  Ohio.  This  had  early  been  a  favourite 
home  of  my  imagination ;  I  have  played  at  being  in  Ohio 
by  the  week,  and  enjoyed  some  capital  sport  there  with 
a  dummy  gun,  my  person  being  still  unbreeched.  My 
preference  was  founded  on  a  work  which  appeared  in 
CasseU's  Family  Paper,  and  was  read  aloud  to  me  by 
my  nurse.  It  narrated  the  doings  of  one  Custaloga,  an 
Indian  brave,  who,  in  the  last  chapter,  very  obligingly 
washed  the  paint  off  his  face  and  became  Sir  Reginald 
Somebody-or-other ;  a  trick  I  never  forgave  him.  The 
idea  of  a  man  being  an  Indian  brave,  and  then  giving 
that  up  to  be  a  baronet,  was  one  which  my  mind  re- 
jected. It  offended  verisimilitude,  like  the  pretended 
anxiety  of  Robinson  Crusoe  and  others  to  escape  from 
uninhabited  islands. 

But  Ohio  was  not  at  all  as  I  had  pictured  it.  We 
were  now  on  those  great  plains  which  stretch  unbroken 
to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  country  was  flat  like 
Holland,  but  far  from  being  dull.  All  through  Ohio, 
Indiana,  Illinois,  and  Iowa,  or  for  as  much  as  I  saw  of 
them  from  the  train  and  in  my  waking  moments,  it 
was  rich  and  various,  and  breathed  an  elegance  peculiar 
to  itself.  The  tall  corn  pleased  the  eye ;  the  trees  were 
graceful  in  themselves,  and  framed  the  plain  into  long, 
aerial  vistas ;  and  the  clean,  bright,  gardened  townships 
spoke  of  country  fare  and  pleasant  summer  evenings  on 
the  stoop.  It  was  a  sort  of  flat  paradise;  but,  I  am 
afraid,  not  unfrequented  by  the  devil.     That  morning 

108 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

dawned  with  such  a  freezing  chill  as  I  have  rarely  felt; 
a  chill  that  was  not  perhaps  so  measurable  by  instru- 
ment, as  it  struck  home  upon  the  heart  and  seemed  to 
travel  with  the  blood.  Day  came  in  with  a  shudder. 
White  mists  lay  thinly  over  the  surface  of  the  plain,  as 
we  see  them  more  often  on  a  lake ;  and  though  the  sun 
had  soon  dispersed  and  drunk  them  up,  leaving  an  at- 
mosphere of  fever  heat  and  crystal  pureness  from  horizon 
to  horizon,  the  mists  had  still  been  there,  and  we  knew 
that  this  paradise  was  haunted  by  killing  damps  and 
foul  malaria.  The  fences  along  the  line  bore  but  two 
descriptions  of  advertisement;  one  to  recommend  to- 
baccos, and  the  other  to  vaunt  remedies  against  the 
ague.  At  the  point  of  day,  and  while  we  were  all  in 
the  grasp  of  that  first  chill,  a  native  of  the  state,  who 
had  got  in  at  some  way  station,  pronounced  it,  with  a 
doctoral  air,  "a  fever  and  ague  morning." 

The  Dutch  widow  was  a  person  of  some  character. 
She  had  conceived  at  first  sight  a  great  aversion  for  the 
present  writer,  which  she  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal. 
But  being  a  woman  of  a  practical  spirit,  she  made  no 
difficulty  about  accepting  my  attentions,  and  encouraged 
me  to  buy  her  children  fruits  and  candies,  to  carry  all 
her  parcels,  and  even  to  sleep  upon  the  floor  that  she 
might  profit  by  my  empty  seat.  Nay,  she  was  such  a 
rattle  by  nature,  and  so  powerfully  moved  to  autobio- 
graphical talk,  that  she  was  forced,  for  want  of  a  better, 
to  take  me  into  confidence  and  tell  me  the  story  of  her 
life.  I  heard  about  her  late  husband,  who  seemed  to 
have  made  his  chief  impression  by  taking  her  out  pleas- 
uring on  Sundays.  I  could  tell  you  her  prospects,  her 
hopes,  the  amount  of  her  fortune,  the  cost  of  her  house- 

109 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

keeping  by  the  week,  and  a  variety  of  particular  matters 
that  are  not  usually  disclosed  except  to  friends.  At  one 
station,  she  shook  up  her  children  to  look  at  a  man  on 
the  platform  and  say  if  he  were  not  like  Mr.  Z. ;  while 
to  me  she  explained  how  she  had  been  keeping  com- 
pany with  this  Mr.  Z.,  how  far  matters  had  proceeded, 
and  how  it  was  because  of  his  desistance  that  she  was 
now  travelling  to  the  west.  Then,  when  I  was  thus  put 
in  possession  of  the  facts,  she  asked  my  judgment  on 
that  type  of  manly  beauty.  I  admired  it  to  her  heart's 
content.  She  was  not,  I  think,  remarkably  veracious  in 
talk,  but  broidered  as  fancy  prompted,  and  built  castles 
in  the  air  out  of  her  past ;  yet  she  had  that  sort  of  can- 
dour, to  keep  me,  in  spite  of  all  these  confidences,  stead- 
ily aware  of  her  aversion.  Her  parting  words  were 
ingeniously  honest.  ''I  am  sure,"  said  she,  ''we  all 
ought  to  be  very  much  obliged  to  you."  I  cannot  pre- 
tend that  she  put  me  at  my  ease ;  but  I  had  a  certain 
respect  for  such  a  genuine  dislike.  A  poor  nature  would 
have  slipped,  in  the  course  of  these  familiarities,  into  a 
sort  of  worthless  toleration  for  me. 

We  reached  Chicago  in  the  evening.  I  was  turned 
out  of  the  cars,  bundled  into  an  omnibus,  and  driven  off 
through  the  streets  to  the  station  of  a  different  railroad. 
Chicago  seemed  a  great  and  gloomy  city.  I  remember 
having  subscribed,  let  us  say  sixpence,  towards  its  res- 
toration at  the  period  of  the  fire;  and  now  when  I  be- 
held street  after  street  of  ponderous  houses  and  crowds 
of  comfortable  burghers,  I  thought  it  would  be  a  grace- 
ful act  for  the  corporation  to  refund  that  sixpence,  or,  at 
the  least,  to  entertain  me  to  a  cheerful  dinner.  But 
there  was  no  word  of  restitution.    I  was  that  city's  ben- 

.  no 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

efactor,  yet  I  was  received  in  a  third-class  waiting-room, 
and  the  best  dinner  I  could  get  was  a  dish  of  ham  and 
eggs  at  my  own  expense. 

1  can  safely  say,  I  have  never  been  so  dog-tired  as  that 
night  in  Chicago.  When  it  was  time  to  start,  I  de- 
scended the  platform  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  It  was  a 
long  train,  lighted  from  end  to  end ;  and  car  after  car,  as 
I  came  up  with  it,  was  not  only  filled  but  overflowing. 
My  valise,  my  knapsack,  my  rug,  with  those  six  pon- 
derous tomes  of  Bancroft,  weighed  me  double ;  I  was 
hot,  feverish,  painfully  athirst;  and  there  was  a  great 
darkness  over  me,  an  internal  darkness,  not  to  be  dis- 
pelled by  gas.  When  at  last  I  found  an  empty  bench, 
I  sank  into  it  like  a  bundle  of  rags,  the  world  seemed  to 
swim  away  into  the  distance,  and  my  consciousness 
dwindled  within  me  to  a  mere  pin's  head,  like  a  taper 
on  a  foggy  night. 

When  I  came  a  little  more  to  myself,  I  found  that 
there  had  sat  down  beside  me  a  very  cheerful,  rosy  little 
German  gentleman,  somewhat  gone  in  drink,  who  was 
talking  away  to  me,  nineteen  to  the  dozen,  as  they  say. 
I  did  my  best  to  keep  up  the  conversation ;  for  it  seemed 
to  me  dimly  as  if  something  depended  upon  that.  I 
heard  him  relate,  among  many  other  things,  that  there 
were  pickpockets  on  the  train,  who  had  already  robbed 
a  man  of  forty  dollars  and  a  return  ticket ;  but  though  I 
caught  the  words,  I  do  not  think  I  properly  understood 
the  sense  until  next  morning;  and  1  believe  I  replied  at 
the  time  that  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it.  What  else  he 
talked  about  I  have  no  guess;  I  remember  a  gabbling 
sound  of  words,  his  profuse  gesticulation,  and  his  smile, 
which  was  highly  explanatory ;  but  no  more.     And  I 

III 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

suppose  I  must  have  shown  my  confusion  very  plainly ; 
for,  first,  I  saw  him  knit  his  brows  at  me  like  one  who 
has  conceived  a  doubt;  next,  he  tried  me  in  German, 
supposing  perhaps  that  I  was  unfamiliar  with  the  English 
tongue ;  and  finally,  in  despair,  he  rose  and  left  me.  I 
felt  chagrined ;  but  my  fatigue  was  too  crushing  for  de- 
lay, and,  stretching  myself  as  far  as  that  was  possible 
upon  the  bench,  I  was  received  at  once  into  a  dreamless 
stupor. 

The  little  German  gentleman  was  only  going  a  little 
way  into  the  suburbs  after  a  diner  fin,  and  was  bent  on 
entertainment  while  the  journey  lasted.  Having  failed 
with  me,  he  pitched  next  upon  another  emigrant,  who 
had  come  through  from  Canada,  and  was  not  one  jot 
less  weary  than  myself.  Nay,  even  in  a  natural  state, 
as  I  found  next  morning  when  we  scraped  acquaintance, 
he  was  a  heavy,  uncommunicative  man.  After  trying 
him  on  different  topics,  it  appears  that  the  little  German 
gentleman  flounced  into  a  temper,  swore  an  oath  or  two, 
and  departed  from  that  car  in  quest  of  livelier  society. 
Poor  little  gentleman !  I  suppose  he  thought  an  emigrant 
should  be  a  rollicking,  free-hearted  blade,  with  a  flask  of 
foreign  brandy  and  a  long,  comical  story  to  beguile  the 
moments  of  digestion. 

Thursday.  —  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  cycle  in  the 
fatigue  of  travelling,  for  when  I  awoke  next  morning,  I 
was  entirely  renewed  in  spirits  and  ate  a  hearty  break- 
fast of  porridge,  with  sweet  milk,  and  coffee  and  hot 
cakes,  at  Burlington  upon  the  Mississippi.  Another 
long  day's  ride  followed,  with  but  one  feature  worthy 
of  remark.  At  a  place, called  Creston,  a  drunken  man 
got  in.     He  was  aggressively  friendly,  but,  according  to 

112 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

English  notions,  not  at  all  unpresentable  upon  a  train. 
For  one  stage  he  eluded  the  notice  of  the  officials ;  but 
just  as  we  were  beginning  to  move  out  of  the  next  sta- 
tion, Cromwell  by  name,  by  came  the  conductor.  There 
was  a  word  or  two  of  talk;  and  then  the  official  had  the 
man  by  the  shoulders,  twitched  him  from  his  seat, 
marched  him  through  the  car,  and  sent  him  flying  on  to 
the  track.  It  was  done  in  three  motions,  as  exact  as  a 
piece  of  drill.  The  train  was  still  moving  slowly,  al- 
though beginning  to  mend  her  pace,  and  the  drunkard 
got  his  feet  without  a  fall.  He  carried  a  red  bundle, 
though  not  so  red  as  his  cheeks;  and  he  shook  this 
menacingly  in  the  air  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  stole 
behind  him  to  the  region  of  the  kidneys.  It  was  the  first 
indication  that  I  had  come  among  revolvers,  and  I  ob- 
served it  with  some  emotion.  The  conductor  stood  on 
the  steps  with  one  hand  on  his  hip,  looking  back  at 
him ;  and  perhaps  this  attitude  imposed  upon  the  crea- 
ture, for  he  turned  without  further  ado,  and  went  off 
staggering  along  the  track  towards  Cromwell,  followed 
by  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  cars.  They  were  speak- 
ing English  all  about  me,  but  I  knew  I  was  in  a  foreign 
land. 

Twenty  minutes  before  nine  that  night,  we  were  de- 
posited atthe  Pacific  Transfer  Station  near  Council  Bluffs, 
on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Missouri  river.  Here  we 
were  to  stay  the  night  at  a  kind  of  caravanserai,  set  apart 
for  emigrants.  But  I  gave  way  to  a  thirst  for  luxury, 
separated  myself  from  my  companions,  and  marched 
with  my  effects  into  the  Union  Pacific  Hotel.  A  white 
clerk  and  a  coloured  gentleman  whom,  in  my  plain 
European  way,  I  should  call  the  boots,  were  installed 

113 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

behind  a  counter  like  bank  tellers.  They  took  my  name, 
assigned  me  a  number,  and  proceeded  to  deal  with  my 
packages.  And  here  came  the  tug  of  war.  I  wished  to 
give  up  my  packages  into  safe  keeping;  but  I  did  not 
wish  to  go  to  bed.  And  this,  it  appeared,  was  impos- 
sible in  an  American  hotel. 

It  was,  of  course,  some  inane  misunderstanding,  and 
sprang  from  my  unfamiliarity  with  the  language.  For 
although  two  nations  use  the  same  words  and  read  the 
same  books,  intercourse  is  not  conducted  by  the  dic- 
tionary. The  business  of  life  is  not  carried  on  by  words, 
but  in  set  phrases,  each  with  a  special  and  almost  a  slang 
signification.  Some  international  obscurity  prevailed 
between  me  and  the  coloured  gentleman  at  Council 
Bluffs ;  so  that  what  I  was  asking,  which  seemed  very 
natural  to  me,  appeared  to  him  a  monstrous  exigency. 
He  refused,  and  that  with  the  plainness  of  the  West. 
This  American  manner  of  conducting  matters  of  busi- 
ness is,  at  first,  highly  unpalatable  to  the  European. 
When  we  approach  a  man  in  the  way  of  his  calling,  and 
for  those  services  by  which  he  earns  his  bread,  we  con- 
sider him  for  the  time  being  our  hired  servant.  But  in 
the  American  opinion,  two  gentlemen  meet  and  have  a 
friendly  talk  with  a  view  to  exchanging  favours  if  they 
shall  agree  to  please.  I  know  not  which  is  the  more 
convenient,  nor  even  which  is  the  more  truly  courteous. 
The  English  stiffness  unfortunately  tends  to  be  continued 
after  the  particular  transaction  is  at  an  end,  and  thus  fa- 
vours class  separations.  But  on  the  other  hand,  these 
equalitarian  plainnesses  leave  an  open  field  for  the  in- 
solence of  Jack-in-office. 

I  was  nettled  by  the  coloured  gentleman's  refusal, 

114 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

and  unbuttoned  my  wrath  under  the  similitude  of  iron- 
ical submission.  I  knew  nothing,  I  said,  of  the  ways 
of  American  hotels ;  but  I  had  no  desire  to  give  trouble. 
If  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  to  bed  immedi- 
ately, let  him  say  the  word,  and  though  it  was  not  my 
habit,  I  should  cheerfully  obey. 

He  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter.  ''  Ah! "  said  he, 
*'you  do  not  know  about  America.  They  are  fine 
people  in  America.  Oh !  you  will  like  them  very  well. 
But  you  mustn't  get  mad.  I  know  what  you  want. 
You  come  along  with  me." 

And  issuing  from  behind  the  counter,  and  taking  me 
by  the  arm  like  an  old  acquaintance,  he  led  me  to  the 
bar  of  the  hotel. 

*' There,"  said  he,  pushing  me  from  him  by  the 
shoulder,   **go  and  have  a  drink!" 

THE  EMIGRANT   TRAIN 

All  this  while  I  had  been  travelling  by  mixed  trains, 
where  I  might  meet  with  Dutch  widows  and  little  Ger- 
man gentry  fresh  from  table.  I  had  been  but  a  latent 
emigrant;  now  I  was  to  be  branded  once  more,  and 
put  apart  with  my  fellows.  It  was  about  two  in  the 
afternoon  of  Friday  that  1  found  myself  in  front  of  the 
Emigrant  House,  with  more  than  a  hundred  others,  to 
be  sorted  and  boxed  for  the  journey.  A  white-haired 
official,  with  a  stick  under  one  arm,  and  a  list  in  the 
other  hand,  stood  apart  in  front  of  us,  and  called  name 
after  name  in  the  tone  of  a  command.  At  each  name 
you  would  see  a  family  gather  up  its  brats  and  bundles 
and  run  for  the  hindmost  of  the  three  cars  that  stood 

»I5 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

awaiting  us,  and  I  soon  concluded  that  this  was  to  be 
set  apart  for  the  women  and  children.  The  second  or 
central  car,  it  turned  out,  was  devoted  to  men  travel- 
ling alone,  and  the  third  to  the  Chinese.  The  official 
was  easily  moved  to  anger  at  the  least  delay ;  but  the 
emigrants  were  both  quick  at  answering  their  names, 
and  speedy  in  getting  themselves  and  their  effects  on 
board. 

The  families  once  housed,  we  men  carried  the  second 
car  without  ceremony  by  simultaneous  assault.  I  sup- 
pose the  reader  has  some  notion  of  an  American  railroad- 
car,  that  long,  narrow  wooden  box,  like  a  flat-roofed 
Noah's  ark,  with  a  stove  and  a  convenience,  one  at 
either  end,  a  passage  down  the  middle,  and  transverse 
benches  upon  either  hand.  Those  destined  for  emi- 
grants on  the  Union  Pacific  are  only  remarkable  for 
their  extreme  plainness,  nothing  but  wood  entering  in 
any  part  into  their  constitution,  and  for  the  usual  in- 
efificacy  of  the  lamps,  which  often  went  out  and  shed 
but  a  dying  glimmer  even  while  they  burned.  The 
benches  are  too  short  for  anything  but  a  young  child. 
Where  there  is  scarce  elbow-room  for  two  to  sit,  there 
will  not  be  be  space  enough  for  one  to  lie.  Hence  the 
company,  or  rather,  as  it  appears  from  certain  bills 
about  the  Transfer  Station,  the  company's  servants, 
have  conceived  a  plan  for  the  better  accommodation 
of  travellers.  They  prevail  on  every  two  to  chum  to- 
gether. To  each  of  the  chums  they  sell  a  board  and 
three  square  cushions  stuffed  with  straw,  and  covered 
with  thin  cotton.  The  benches  can  be  made  to  face 
each  other  in  pairs,  for  the  backs  are  reversible.  On  the 
approach  of  night  the  boards  are  laid  from  bench  to 

ii6 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS 

bench,  making  a  couch  wide  enough  for  two,  and 
long  enough  for  a  man  of  the  middle  height;  and  the 
chums  lie  down  side  by  side  upon  the  cushions  with 
the  head  to  the  conductor's  van  and  the  feet  to  the  en- 
gine. When  the  train  is  full,  of  course  this  plan  is 
impossible,  for  there  must  not  be  more  than  one  to 
every  bench,  neither  can  it  be  carried  out  unless  the 
chums  agree.  It  was  to  bring  about  this  last  condition 
that  our  white-haired  official  now  bestirred  himself  He 
made  a  most  active  master  of  ceremonies,  introducing 
likely  couples,  and  even  guaranteeing  the  amiability  and 
honesty  of  each.  The  greater  the  number  of  happy 
couples  the  better  for  his  pocket,  for  it  was  he  who 
sold  the  raw  material  of  the  beds.  His  price  for  one 
board  and  three  straw  cushions  began  with  two  dollars 
and  a  half;  but  before  the  train  left,  and,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  long  after  I  had  purchased  mine,  it  had  fallen  to 
one  dollar  and  a  half 

The  match-maker  had  a  difficulty  with  me ;  perhaps, 
like  some  ladies,  I  showed  myself  too  eager  for  union 
at  any  price ;  but  certainly  the  first  who  was  picked  out 
to  be  my  bedfellow,  declined  the  honour  without  thanks. 
He  was  an  old,  heavy,  slow-spoken  man,  1  think  from 
Yankeeland,  looked  me  all  over  with  great  timidity, 
and  then  began  to  excuse  himself  in  broken  phrases. 
He  didn't  know  the  young  man,  he  said.  The  young 
man  might  be  very  honest,  but  how  was  he  to  know 
that  ?  There  was  another  young  man  whom  he  had 
met  already  in  the  train ;  he  guessed  he  was  honest,  and 
would  prefer  to  chum  with  him  upon  the  whole.  All 
this  without  any  sort  of  excuse,  as  though  I  had  been 
inanimate  or  absent.     I  began  to  tremble  lest  everyone 

117 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

should  refuse  my  company,  and  I  be  left  rejected.  But 
the  next  in  turn  was  a  tall,  strapping,  long-limbed, 
small-headed,  curly-haired  Pennsylvania  Dutchman, 
with  a  soldierly  smartness  in  his  manner.  To  be  exact, 
he  had  acquired  it  in  the  navy.  But  that  was  all  one ; 
he  had  at  least  been  trained  to  desperate  resolves,  so  he 
accepted  the  match,  and  the  white-haired  swindler  pro- 
nounced the  connubial  benediction,  and  pocketed  his  fees. 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  spent  in  making  up  the 
train.  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  many  baggage-waggons 
followed  the  engine,  certainly  a  score;  then  came  the 
Chinese,  then  we,  then  the  families,  and  the  rear  was 
brought  up  by  the  conductor  in  what,  if  I  have  it  rightly, 
is  called  his  caboose.  The  class  to  which  I  belonged 
was  of  course  far  the  largest,  and  we  ran  over,  so  to 
speak,  to  both  sides ;  so  that  there  were  some  Caucasians 
among  the  Chinamen,  and  some  bachelors  among  the 
families.  But  our  own  car  was  pure  from  admixture, 
save  for  one  little  boy  of  eight  or  nine,  who  had  the 
whooping-cough.  At  last,  about  six,  the  long  train 
crawled  out  of  the  Transfer  Station  and  across  the  wide 
Missouri  river  to  Omaha,  westward  bound. 

It  was  a  troubled  uncomfortable  evening  in  the  cars. 
There  was  thunder  in  the  air,  which  helped  to  keep  us 
restless.  A  man  played  many  airs  upon  the  cornet, 
and  none  of  them  were  much  attended  to,  until  he  came 
to  "Home,  sweet  home."  It  was  truly  strange  to  note 
how  the  talk  ceased  at  that,  and  the  faces  began  to 
lengthen.  I  have  no  idea  whether  musically  this  air  is 
to  be  considered  good  or  bad;  but  it  belongs  to  that 
class  of  art  which  may  be  best  described  as  a  brutal 
assault  upon  the  feelings.     Pathos  must  be  relieved  by 

ii8 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

dignity  of  treatment.  If  you  wallow  naked  in  the  pa- 
thetic, like  the  author  of  ''Home,  sweet  home,"  you 
make  your  hearers  weep  in  an  unmanly  fashion;  and 
even  while  yet  they  are  moved,  they  despise  themselves 
and  hate  the  occasion  of  their  weakness.  It  did  not 
come  to  tears  that  night,  for  the  experiment  was  inter- 
rupted. An  elderly,  hard-looking  man,  with  a  goatee 
beard  and  about  as  much  appearance  of  sentiment  as 
you  would  expect  from  a  retired  slaver,  turned  with  a 
start  and  bade  the  performer  stop  that  "  damned  thing.'* 
"I've  heard  about  enough  of  that,"  he  added;  "give 
us  something  about  the  good  country  we're  going  to." 
A  murmur  of  adhesion  ran  round  the  car;  the  performer 
took  the  instrument  from  his  lips,  laughed  and  nodded, 
and  then  struck  into  a  dancing  measure;  and,  like  a  new 
Timotheus,  stilled  immediately  the  emotion  he  had 
raised. 

The  day  faded;  the  lamps  were  lit;  a  party  of  wild 
young  men,  who  got  off  next  evening  at  North  Platte, 
stood  together  on  the  stern  platform,  singing  "The 
Sweet  By-and-bye  "  with  very  tuneful  voices ;  the  chums 
began  to  put  up  their  beds ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day  were  at  an  end.  But  it  was  not  so;  for, 
the  train  stopping  at  some  station,  the  cars  were  in- 
stantly thronged  with  the  natives,  wives  and  fathers, 
young  men  and  maidens,  some  of  them  in  little  more 
than  nightgear,  some  with  stable  lanterns,  and  all  offer- 
ing beds  for  sale.  Their  charge  began  with  twenty-five 
cents  a  cushion,  but  fell,  before  the  train  went  on  again, 
to  fifteen,  with  the  bed-board  gratis,  or  less  than  one- 
fifth  of  what  I  had  paid  for  mine  at  the  Transfer.  This 
is  my  contribution  to  the  economy  of  future  emigrants. 

119 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

A  great  personage  on  an  American  train  is  the  news- 
boy. He  sells  books  (such  books!),  papers,  fruit,  lolli- 
pops, and  cigars;  and  on  emigrant  journeys,  soap, 
towels,  tin  washing  dishes,  tin  coffee  pitchers,  coffee, 
tea,  sugar,  and  tinned  eatables,  mostly  hash  or  beans 
and  bacon.  Early  next  morning  the  newsboy  went 
around  the  cars,  and  chumming  on  a  more  extended 
principle  became  the  order  of  the  hour.  It  requires  but 
a  copartnery  of  two  to  manage  beds ;  but  washing  and 
eating  ean  be  carried  on  most  economically  by  a  syndi- 
cate of  three.  I  myself  entered  a  little  after  sunrise  in- 
to articles  of  agreement,  and  became  one  of  the  firm 
of  Pennsylvania,  Shakespeare,  and  Dubuque.  Shake- 
speare was  my  own  nickname  on  the  cars;  Pennsyl- 
vania that  of  my  bedfellow;  and  Dubuque,  the  name  of 
a  place  in  the  State  of  Iowa,  that  of  an  amiable  young 
fellow  going  west  to  cure  an  asthma,  and  retarding  his 
recovery  by  incessantly  chewing  or  smoking,  and  some- 
times chewing  and  smoking  together.  I  have  never 
seen  tobacco  so  sillily  abused.  Shakespeare  bought  a 
tin  washing-dish,  Dubuque  a  towel,  and  Pennsylvania 
a  brick  of  soap.  The  partners  used  these  instruments, 
one  after  another,  according  to  the  order  of  their  first 
awaking ;  and  when  the  firm  had  finished  there  was  no 
want  of  borrowers.  Each  filled  the  tin  dish  at  the  wa- 
ter filter  opposite  the  stove,  and  retired  with  the  whole 
stock  in  trade  to  the  platform  of  the  car.  There  he 
knelt  down,  supporting  himself  by  a  shoulder  against 
the  woodwork  or  one  elbow  crooked  about  the  railing, 
and  made  a  shift  to  wash  his  face  and  neck  and  hands ; 
a  cold,  an  insufficient,  and,  if  the  train  is  moving  rap- 
idly, a  somewhat  dangerous  toilet. 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

On  a  similar  division  of  expense,  the  firm  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, Shakespeare,  and  Dubuque  supplied  themselves 
with  coffee,  sugar,  and  necessary  vessels;  and  their 
operations  are  a  type  of  what  went  on  through  all  the 
cars.  Before  the  sun  was  up  the  stove  would  be 
brightly  burning;  at  the  first  station  the  natives  would 
come  on  board  with  milk  and  eggs  and  coffee  cakes ; 
and  soon  from  end  to  end  the  car  would  be  filled  with 
little  parties  breakfasting  upon  the  bed-boards.  It  was 
the  pleasantest  hour  of  the  day. 

There  were  meals  to  be  had,  however,  by  the  way- 
side: a  breakfast  in  the  morning,  a  dinner  somewhere 
between  eleven  and  two,  and  supper  from  five  to  eight 
or  nine  at  night.  We  had  rarely  less  than  twenty  min- 
utes for  each ;  and  if  we  had  not  spent  many  another 
twenty  minutes  waiting  for  some  express  upon  a  side 
track  among  miles  of  desert,  we  might  have  taken  an 
hour  to  each  repast  and  arrived  at  San  Francisco  up  to 
time.  For  haste  is  not  the  foible  of  an  emigrant  train. 
It  gets  through  on  sufferance,  running  the  gauntlet 
among  its  more  considerable  brethren ;  should  there  be 
a  block,  it  is  unhesitatingly  sacrificed ;  and  they  cannot, 
in  consequence,  predict  the  length  of  the  passage  within 
a  day  or  so.  Civility  is  the  main  comfort  that  you  miss. 
Equality,  though  conceived  very  largely  in  America, 
does  not  extend  so  low  down  as  to  an  emigrant.  Thus 
in  all  other  trains,  a  warning  cry  of  "All  aboard!"  re- 
calls the  passengers  to  take  their  seats ;  but  as  soon  as 
1  was  alone  with  emigrants,  and  from  the  Transfer  all 
the  way  to  San  Francisco,  I  found  this  ceremony  was 
pretermitted;  the  train  stole  from  the  station  without 
note  of  warning,  and  you  had  to  keep  an  eye  upon  it 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

even  while  you  ate.  The  annoyance  is  considerable, 
and  the  disrespect  both  wanton  and  petty. 

Many  conductors,  again,  will  hold  no  communication 
with  an  emigrant.  I  asked  a  conductor  one  day  at 
what  time  the  train  would  stop  for  dinner;  as  he  made 
no  answer  I  repeated  the  question,  with  a  like  result;  a 
third  time  I  returned  to  the  charge,  and  then  Jack-in- 
office  looked  me  coolly  in  the  face  for  several  seconds 
and  turned  ostentatiously  away.  I  believe  he  was  half 
ashamed  of  his  brutality;  for  when  another  person 
made  the  same  inquiry,  although  he  still  refused  the  in- 
formation, he  condescended  to  answer,  and  even  to 
justify  his  reticence  in  a  voice  loud  enough  for  me  to 
hear.  It  was,  he  said,  his  principle  not  to  tell  people 
where  they  were  to  dine ;  for  one  answer  led  to  many 
other  questions,  as  what  o'clock  it  was  ?  or,  how  soon 
should  we  be  there?  and  he  could  not  afford  to  be 
eternally  worried. 

As  you  are  thus  cut  off  from  the  superior  authorities, 
a  great  deal  of  your  comfort  depends  on  the  character 
of  the  newsboy.  He  has  it  in  his  power  indefinitely  to 
better  and  brighten  the  emigrant's  lot.  The  newsboy 
with  whom  we  started  from  the  Transfer  was  a  dark, 
bullying,  contemptuous,  insolent  scoundrel,  who  treated 
us  like  dogs.  Indeed,  in  his  case,  matters  came  nearly 
to  a  fight.  It  happened  thus :  he  was  going  his  rounds 
through  the  cars  with  some  commodities  for  sale,  and 
coming  to  a  party  who  were  at  Seven-up  or  Cascino  (our 
two  games),  upon  a  bed-board,  slung  down  a  cigar-box 
in  the  middle  of  the  cards,  knocking  one  man's  hand  to 
the  floor.  It  was  the  last  straw.  In  a  moment  the 
whole  party  were  upon  their  feet,  the  cigars  were  upset, 

122 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

and  he  was  ordered  to  "get  out  of  that  directly,  or  he 
would  get  more  than  he  reckoned  for."  The  fellow 
grumbled  and  muttered,  but  ended  by  making  off,  and 
was  less  openly  insulting  in  the  future.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  lad  who  rode  with  us  in  this  capacity  from 
Ogden  to  Sacramento  made  himself  the  friend  of  all, 
and  helped  us  with  information,  attention,  assistance, 
and  a  kind  countenance.  He  told  us  where  and  when 
we  should  have  our  meals,  and  how  long  the  train  would 
stop ;  kept  seats  at  table  for  those  who  were  delayed, 
and  watched  that  we  should  neither  be  left  behind  nor 
yet  unnecessarily  hurried.  You,  who  live  at  home  at 
ease,  can  hardly  realise  the  greatness  of  this  service,  even 
had  it  stood  alone.  When  I  think  of  that  lad  coming 
and  going,  train  after  train,  with  his  bright  face  and 
civil  words,  I  see  how  easily  a  good  man  may  become 
the  benefactor  of  his  kind.  Perhaps  he  is  discontented 
with  himself,  perhaps  troubled  with  ambitions;  why, 
if  he  but  knew  it,  he  is  a  hero  of  the  old  Greek  stamp ; 
and  while  he  thinks  he  is  only  earning  a  profit  of  a  few 
cents,  and  that  perhaps  exorbitant,  he  is  doing  a  man's 
work,  and  bettering  the  world. 

I  must  tell  here  an  experience  of  mine  with  another 
newsboy.  I  tell  it  because  it  gives  so  good  an  example 
of  that  uncivil  kindness  of  the  American,  which  is  per- 
haps their  most  bewildering  character  to  one  newly 
landed.  It  was  immediately  after  I  had  left  the  emigrant 
train ;  and  I  am  told  I  looked  like  a  man  at  death's  door, 
so  much  had  this  long  journey  shaken  me.  I  sat  at  the 
end  of  a  car,  and  the  catch  being  broken,  and  myself 
feverish  and  sick,  I  had  to  hold  the  door  open  with  my 
foot  for  the  sake  of  air.    In  this  attitude  my  leg  debarred 

123 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

the  newsboy  from  his  box  of  merchandise.  I  made  haste 
to  let  him  pass  when  I  observed  that  he  was  coming; 
but  I  was  busy  with  a  book,  and  so  once  or  twice  he 
came  upon  me  unawares.  On  these  occasions  he  most 
rudely  struck  my  foot  aside ;  and  though  I  myself  apol- 
ogised, as  if  to  show  him  the  way,  he  answered  me 
never  a  word.  I  chafed  furiously,  and  I  fear  the  next 
time  it  would  have  come  to  words.  But  suddenly  I  felt 
a  touch  upon  my  shoulder,  and  a  large  juicy  pear  was 
put  into  my  hand.  It  was  the  newsboy,  who  had  ob- 
served that  1  was  looking  ill  and  so  made  me  this  pres- 
ent out  of  a  tender  heart.  For  the  rest  of  the  journey  I 
was  petted  like  a  sick  child;  he  lent  me  newspapers, 
thus  depriving  himself  of  his  legitimate  profit  on  their 
sale,  and  came  repeatedly  to  sit  by  me  and  cheer  me  up. 

THE   PLAINS   OF   NEBRASKA 

It  had  thundered  on  the  Friday  night,  but  the  sun 
rose  on  Saturday  without  a  cloud.  We  were  at  sea  — 
there  is  no  other  adequate  expression — on  the  plains  of 
Nebraska.  I  made  my  observatory  on  the  top  of  a  fruit- 
waggon,  and  sat  by  the  hour  upon  that  perch  to  spy 
about  me,  and  to  spy  in  vain  for  something  new.  It 
was  a  world  almost  without  a  feature ;  an  empty  sky, 
an  empty  earth;  front  and  back,  the  line  of  railway 
stretched  from  horizon  to  horizon,  like  a  cue  across  a 
billiard-board ;  on  either  hand,  the  green  plain  ran  till  it 
touched  the  skirts  of  heaven.  Along  the  track  innumer- 
able wild  sunflowers,  no  bigger  than  a  crown-piece, 
bloomed  in  a  continuous  flower-bed;  grazing  beasts 
were  seen  upon  the  prairie  at  all  degrees  of  distance  and 

124 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

diminution ;  and,  now  and  again  we  might  perceive  a 
few  dots  beside  the  railroad  which  grew  more  and  more 
distinct  as  we  drew  nearer  till  they  turned  into  wooden 
cabins,  and  then  dwindled  and  dwindled  in  our  wake 
until  they  melted  into  their  surroundings,  and  we  were 
once  more  alone  upon  the  billiard-board.  The  train 
toiled  over  this  infinity  like  a  snail;  and  being  the  one 
thing  moving,  it  was  wonderful  what  huge  proportions 
it  began  to  assume  in  our  regard.  It  seemed  miles  in 
length,  and  either  end  of  it  within  but  a  step  of  the  hori- 
zon. Even  my  own  body  or  my  own  head  seemed  a 
great  thing  in  that  emptiness.  I  note  the  feeling  the 
more  readily  as  it  is  the  contrary  of  what  I  have  read  of 
in  the  experience  of  others.  Day  and  night,  above  the 
roar  of  the  train,  our  ears  were  kept  busy  with  the  in- 
cessant chirp  of  grasshoppers  —  a  noise  like  the  wind- 
ing up  of  countless  clocks  and  watches,  which  began 
after  a  while  to  seem  proper  to  that  land. 

To  one  hurrying  through  by  steam  there  was  a  certain 
exhilaration  in  this  spacious  vacancy,  this  greatness  of 
the  air,  this  discovery  of  the  whole  arch  of  heaven,  this 
straight,  unbroken,  prison-line  of  the  horizon.  Yet  one 
could  not  but  reflect  upon  the  weariness  of  those  who 
passed  by  there  in  old  days,  at  the  foot's  pace  of  oxen, 
painfully  urging  their  teams,  and  with  no  landmark  but 
that  unattainable  evening  sun  for  which  they  steered,  and 
which  daily  fled  them  by  an  equal  stride.  They  had 
nothing,  it  would  seem,  to  overtake ;  nothing  by  which 
to  reckon  their  advance ;  no  sight  for  repose  or  for  en- 
couragement; but  stage  after  stage,  only  the  dead  green 
waste  under  foot,  and  the  mocking,  fugitive  horizon. 
But  the  eye,  as  I  have  been  told,  found  differences  even 

>25 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

here;  and  at  the  worst  the  emigrant  came,  by  perse- 
verance, to  the  end  of  his  toil.  It  is  the  settlers,  after 
all,  at  whom  we  have  a  right  to  marvel.  Our  con- 
sciousness, by  which  we  live,  is  itself  but  the  creature 
of  variety.  Upon  what  food  does  it  subsist  in  such  a 
land  ?  What  livelihood  can  repay  a  human  creature  for 
a  life  spent  in  this  huge  sameness  ?  He  is  cut  off  from 
books,  from  news,  from  company,  from  all  that  can  re- 
lieve existence  but  the  prosecution  of  his  affairs.  A  sky 
full  of  stars  is  the  most  varied  spectacle  that  he  can  hope. 
He  may  walk  five  miles  and  see  nothing;  ten,  and  it  is 
as  though  he  had  not  moved;  twenty,  and  still  he  is  in 
the  midst  of  the  same  great  level,  and  has  approached 
no  nearer  to  the  one  object  within  view,  the  flat  horizon 
which  keeps  pace  with  his  advance.  We  are  full  at 
home  of  the  question  of  agreeable  wall-papers,  and  wise 
people  are  of  opinion  that  the  temper  may  be  quieted  by 
sedative  surroundings.  But  what  is  to  be  said  of  the 
Nebraskan  settler.^  His  is  a  wall-paper  with  a  ven- 
geance—  one  quarter  of  the  universe  laid  bare  in  all  its 
gauntness.  His  eye  must  embrace  at  every  glance  the 
whole  seeming  concave  of  the  visible  world;  it  quails 
before  so  vast  an  outlook,  it  is  tortured  by  distance ;  yet 
there  is  no  rest  or  shelter,  till  the  man  runs  into  his 
cabin,  and  can  repose  his  sight  upon  things  near  at 
hand.  Hence,  I  am  told,  a  sickness  of  the  vision  pecu- 
liar to  these  empty  plains. 

Yet  perhaps  with  sunflowers  and  cicadae,  summer  and 
winter,  cattle,  wife  and  family,  the  settler  may  create  a 
full  and  various  existence.  One  person  at  least  I  saw 
upon  the  plains  who  seemed  in  every  way  superior  to 
her  lot.     This  was  a  woman  who  boarded  us  at  a  way 

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ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

Station,  selling  milk.  She  was  largely  formed ;  her  fea- 
tures were  more  than  comely ;  she  had  that  great  rarity 
—  a  fine  complexion  which  became  her;  and  her  eyes 
were  kind,  dark,  and  steady.  She  sold  milk  with  pa- 
triarchal grace.  There  was  not  a  line  in  her  counte- 
nance, not  a  note  in  her  soft  and  sleepy  voice,  but  spoke 
of  an  entire  contentment  with  her  life.  It  would  have 
been  fatuous  arrogance  to  pity  such  a  woman.  Yet  the 
place  where  she  lived  was  to  me  almost  ghastly.  Less 
than  a  dozen  wooden  houses,  all  of  a  shape  and  all 
nearly  of  a  size,  stood  planted  along  the  railway  lines. 
Each  stood  apart  in  its  own  lot.  Each  opened  direct  off 
the  billiard-board,  as  if  it  were  a  billiard-board  indeed, 
and  these  only  models  that  had  been  set  down  upon  it 
ready  made.  Her  own,  into  which  I  looked,  was  clean 
but  very  empty,  and  showed  nothing  homelike  but  the 
burning  fire.  This  extreme  newness,  above  all  in  so 
naked  and  flat  a  country,  gives  a  strong  impression  of 
artificiality.  With  none  of  the  litter  and  discolouration 
of  human  life ;  with  the  paths  unworn,  and  the  houses 
still  sweating  from  the  axe,  such  a  settlement  as  this 
seems  purely  scenic.  The  mind  is  loth  to  accept  it  for 
a  piece  of  reality ;  and  it  seems  incredible  that  life  can 
go  on  with  so  few  properties,  or  the  great  child,  man, 
find  entertainment  in  so  bare  a  playroom. 

And  truly  it  is  as  yet  an  incomplete  society  in  some 
points ;  or  at  least  it  contained,  as  I  passed  through,  one 
person  incompletely  civilised.  At  North  Platte,  where 
we  supped  that  evening,  one  man  asked  another  to  pass 
the  milk-jug.  This  other  was  well-dressed  and  of  what 
we  should  call  a  respectable  appearance;  a  darkish  man, 
high  spoken,  eating  as  though  he  had  some  usage  of 

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ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

society ;  but  he  turned  upon  the  first  speaker  with  ex- 
traordinary vehemence  of  tone 

''There's  a  waiter  here!"  he  cried. 

' '  I  only  asked  you  to  pass  the  milk, "  explained  the  first. 

Here  is  the  retort  verbatim 


''Pass!  Hell!  I'm  not  paid  for  that  business;  the 
waiter's  paid  for  it.  You  should  use  civility  at  table, 
and,  by  God,  I'll  show  you  how!  " 

The  other  man  very  wisely  made  no  answer,  and  the 
bully  went  on  with  his  supper  as  though  nothing  had  oc- 
curred. It  pleases  me  to  think  that  some  day  soon  he  will 
meet  with  one  of  his  own  kidney ;  and  that  perhaps  both 
may  fall. 

THE   DESERT   OF  WYOMING 

To  cross  such  a  plain  is  to  grow  homesick  for  the 
mountains.  I  longed  for  the  Black  Hills  of  Wyoming, 
which  I  knew  we  were  soon  to  enter,  like  an  ice-bound 
whaler  for  the  spring.  Alas!  and  it  was  a  worse  coun- 
try than  the  other.  All  Sunday  and  Monday  we  trav- 
elled through  these  sad  mountains,  or  over  the  main 
ridge  of  the  Rockies,  which  is  a  fair  match  to  them  for 
misery  of  aspect.  Hour  after  hour  it  was  the  same  un- 
homely  and  unkindly  world  about  our  onward  path ; 
tumbled  boulders,  cliffs  that  drearily  imitate  the  shape 
of  monuments  and  fortifications  —  how  drearily,  how 
tamely,  none  can  tell  who  has  not  seen  them;  not  a 
tree,  not  a  patch  of  sward,  not  one  shapely  or  com- 
manding mountain  form;  sage-brush,  eternal  sage- 
brush ;  over  all,  the  same  weariful  and  gloomy  colouring, 
grays  warming  into  brown,  grays  darkening  towards 
black;  and  for  sole  sign  of  life,  here  and  there  a  few 

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ACROSS   THE   PLAINS 

fleeing  antelopes ;  here  and  there,  but  at  incredible  in- 
tervals,  a  creek  running  in  a  canon.  The  plains  have  a 
grandeur  of  their  own ;  but  here  there  is  nothing  but  a 
contorted  smallness.  Except  for  the  air,  which  was 
light  and  stimulating,  there  was  not  one  good  circum- 
stance in  that  God-forsaken  land. 

I  had  been  suffering  in  my  health  a  good  deal  all  the 
way ;  and  at  last,  whether  I  was  exhausted  by  my  com- 
plaint or  poisoned  in  some  wayside  eating-house,  the 
evening  we  left  Laramie,  I  fell  sick  outright.  That  was 
a  night  which  I  shall  not  readily  forget.  The  lamps  did 
not  go  out;  each  made  a  faint  shining  in  its  own  neigh- 
bourhood, and  the  shadows  were  confounded  together 
in  the  long,  hollow  box  of  the  car.  The  sleepers  lay  in 
uneasy  attitudes ;  here  two  chums  alongside,  flat  upon 
their  backs  like  dead  folk;  there  a  man  sprawling  on  the 
floor,  with  his  face  upon  his  arm;  there  another  half 
seated  with  his  head  and  shoulders  on  the  bench.  The 
most  passive  were  continually  and  roughly  shaken  by 
the  movement  of  the  train;  others  stirred,  turned,  or 
stretched  out  their  arms  like  children ;  it  was  surprising 
how  many  groaned  and  murmured  in  their  sleep ;  and 
as  I  passed  to  and  fro,  stepping  across  the  prostrate,  and 
caught  now  a  snore,  now  a  gasp,  now  a  half-formed 
word,  it  gave  me  a  measure  of  the  worthlessness  of  rest 
in  that  unresting  vehicle.  Although  it  was  chill,  I  was 
obliged  to  open  my  window,  for  the  degradation  of  the 
air  soon  became  intolerable  to  one  who  was  awake  and 
using  the  full  supply  of  life.  Outside,  in  a  glimmering 
night,  I  saw  the  black,  amorphous  hills  shoot  by  un- 
weariedly  into  our  wake.  They  that  long  for  morning 
have  never  longed  for  it  more  earnestly  than  I. 

129 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

And  yet  when  day  came,  it  was  to  shine  upon  the 
same  broken  and  unsightly  quarter  of  the  world.  Mile 
upon  mile,  and  not  a  tree,  a  bird,  or  a  river.  Only  down 
the  long,  sterile  canons,  the  train  shot  hooting  and 
awoke  the  resting  echo.  That  train  was  the  one  piece 
of  life  in  all  the  deadly  land ;  it  was  the  one  actor,  the 
one  spectacle  fit  to  be  observed  in  this  paralysis  of  man 
and  nature.  And  when  I  think  how  the  railroad  has 
been  pushed  through  this  unwatered  wilderness  and 
haunt  of  savage  tribes,  and  now  will  bear  an  emigrant 
for  some  ;£i2  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Golden  Gates; 
how  at  each  stage  of  the  construction,  roaring,  im- 
promptu cities,  full  of  gold  and  lust  and  death,  sprang 
up  and  then  died  away  again,  and  are  now  but  wayside 
stations  in  the  desert ;  how  in  these  uncouth  places  pig- 
tailed  Chinese  pirates  worked  side  by  side  with  border 
ruffians  and  broken  men  from  Europe,  talking  together 
in  a  mixed  dialect,  mostly  oaths,  gambling,  drinking, 
quarrelling  and  murdering  like  wolves ;  how  the  plumed 
hereditary  lord  of  all  America  heard,  in  this  last  fast- 
ness, the  scream  of  the  ''bad  medicine  waggon  "  chariot- 
ing his  foes ;  and  then  when  I  go  on  to  remember  that 
all  this  epical  turmoil  was  conducted  by  gentlemen  in 
frock  coats,  and  with  a  view  to  nothing  more  extraor- 
dinary than  a  fortune  and  a  subsequent  visit  to  Paris,  it 
seems  to  me,  I  own,  as  if  this  railway  were  the  one 
typical  achievement  of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  as  if  it 
brought  together  into  one  plot  all  the  ends  of  the  world 
and  all  the  degrees  of  social  rank,  and  offered  to  some 
great  writer  the  busiest,  the  most  extended,  and  the 
most  varied  subject  for  an  enduring  literary  work.  If  it 
be  romance,  if  it  be  contrast,  if  it  be  heroism  that  we  re- 

130 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS 

quire,  what  was  Troy  town  to  this?  But,  alas!  it  is 
not  these  things  that  are  necessary  —  it  is  only  Homer. 
Here  also  we  are  grateful  to  the  train,  as  to  some  god 
who  conducts  us  swiftly  through  these  shades  and  by 
so  many  hidden  perils.  Thirst,  hunger,  the  sleight  and 
ferocity  of  Indians  are  all  no  more  feared,  so  lightly  do 
we  skim  these  horrible  lands ;  as  the  gull,  who  wings 
safely  through  the  hurricane  and  past  the  shark.  Yet 
we  should  not  be  forgetful  of  these  hardships  of  the 
past;  and  to  keep  the  balance  true,  since  I  have  com- 
plained of  the  trifling  discomforts  of  my  journey,  per- 
haps more  than  was  enough,  let  me  add  an  original 
document.  It  was  not  written  by  Homer,  but  by  a  boy 
of  eleven,  long  since  dead,  and  is  dated  only  twenty 
years  ago.  I  shall  punctuate,  to  make  things  clearer, 
but  not  change  the  spelling. 

"My  dear  sister  Mary, — /  am  afraid  you  will  go 
nearly  cra^y  when  you  read  my  letter.  If  Jerry  "  (the 
writer's  eldest  brother)  ' '  has  not  written  to  you  before 
now,  you  will  be  surprised  to  heare  that  we  are  in  Cali- 
fornia y  and  that  poor  Thomas  "  (another  brother  y  of  fif- 
teen) "is  dead.     We  started  from in  July  y  with 

plenty  of  provisions  and  too  yoke  oxen.  We  went  along 
very  well  till  we  got  within  six  or  seven  hundred  miles  of 
Californiay  when  the  Indians  attacked  uSo  We  found 
places  where  they  had  killed  the  emigrants.  We  had  one 
passenger  with  uSy  too  guns,  and  one  revolver;  so  we  ran 
all  the  lead  We  had  into  bullets  (and)  hung  the  guns  up  in 
the  wagon  so  that  we  could  get  at  them  in  a  minit.  It 
was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  ;  droave  the  cattel 

131 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

a  little  way;  when  a  prairie  chicken  alited  a  little  way 
from  the  wagon. 

"Jerry  took  out  one  of  the  guns  to  shoot  it,  and  told 
Tom  to  drive  the  oxen.  Tom  and  I  drove  the  oxen,  and 
Jerry  and  the  passenger  went  on.  Then,  after  a  little, 
I  left  Tom  and  caught  up  with  Jerry  and  the  other  man, 
Jerry  stopped  for  Tom  to  come  up;  me  and  the  man  went 
on  and  sit  down  by  a  little  stream.  In  a  few  minutes, 
we  heard  some  noise;  then  three  shots  (they  all  struck 
poor  Tom,  I  suppose);  then  they  gave  the  war  hoop,  and 
as  many  as  twenty  of  the  red  skins  came  down  upon  us. 
The  three  that  shot  Tom  was  hid  by  the  side  of  the  road 
in  the  bushes. 

"'  I  thought  the  Tom  and  Jerry  were  shot;  so  I  told  the 
other  man  that  Tom  and  Jerry  were  dead,  and  that  we 
had  better  try  to  escape,  if  possible.  I  had  no  shoes  on; 
having  a  sore  foot,  I  thought  I  would  not  put  them  on. 
The  man  and  me  run  dawn  the  road,  but  We  was  soon 
stopt  by  an  Indian  on  a  pony.  We  then  turend  the  other 
way,  and  run  up  the  side  of  the  Mountain,  and  hid  be- 
hind some  cedar  trees,  and  stayed  there  till  dark.  The 
Indians  hunted  all  aver  after  us,  and  verry  close  to  us, 
so  close  that  we  could  here  there  tomy hawks  Jingle.  At 
dark  the  man  and  me  started  on,  I  stubingmy  toes  against 
sticks  and  stones.  We  traveld  on  all  night;  and  next 
morning.  Just  as  it  was  getting  gray,  we  saw  something 
in  the  shape  of  a  man.  It  layed  Dawn  in  the  grass.  We 
went  up  to  it,  and  it  was  Jerry.  He  thought  we  ware 
Indians.  You  can  imagine  how  glad  he  was  to  see  me. 
He  thought  we  was  all  dead  but  him,  and  we  thought  him 
and  Tom  was  dead.    He  had  the  gun  that  he  took  out  of 

132 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

the  wagon  to  shoot  the  prairie  Chicken;  all  he  had  was 
the  load  that  was  in  it, 

"'We  traveld  on  till  about  eight  o'clock.  We  caught 
up  with  one  wagon  with  too  men  with  it.  We  had  trav- 
eld with  them  before  one  day;  we  stopt  and  they  Drove 
on;  we  knew  that  they  was  ahead  of  us,  unless  they  had 
been  killed  to.  My  feet  was  so  sore  when  we  caught  up 
with  them  that  I  had  to  ride;  I  could  not  step.  We  trav- 
eld on  for  too  days,  when  the  men  that  owned  the  cattle 
said  they  would  (could)  not  drive  them  another  inch.  We 
unyoked  the  oxen;  we  had  about  seventy  pounds  of  flour; 
we  took  it  out  and  divided  it  into  four  packs.  Each  of 
the  men  took  about  i8  pounds  apiece  and  a  blanket.  I 
carried  a  little  bacon,  dried  meat,  and  little  quilt;  I  had 
in  all  about  twelve  pounds.  We  had  one  pint  of  flour  a  day 
for  our  anoyance.  Sometimes  we  made  soup  of  it;  some- 
times we  {made) pancakes;  and  sometimes  mixed  it  up  with 
cold  water  and  eat  it  that  way.  We  traveld  twelve  or  four- 
teen days.  The  time  came  at  last  when  we  should  have  to 
reach  some  place  or  starve.  We  saw  fresh  horse  and  cattle 
tracks.  The  morning  come,  we  scraped  aU  the  flour  out  of 
the  sack,  mixed  it  up,  and  baked  it  into  bread,  and  made 
some  soup,  and  eat  everything  we  had.  W^  traveld  on  all 
day  without  anything  to  eat,  and  that  evening  we  Caught  up 
with  a  sheep  train  of  eight  wagons.  We  traveld  with  them 
till  we  arrived  at  the  settlements;  and  know  I  am  safe  in 
California,  and  got  to  good  home,  and  going  to  school. 

''Jerry  is  working  in .     //  is  a  good  country. 

You  can  get  from  ^o  to  60  and  y^  Dollars  for  cooking. 
Tell  me  all  about  the  affairs  in  the  States,  and  how  all  the 
folks  get  along. ' ' 

133 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 


And  SO  ends  this  artless  narrative.  The  little  man  was 
at  school  again,  God  bless  him,  while  his  brother  lay 
scalped  upon  the  deserts. 


FELLOW   PASSENGERS 

At  Ogden  we  changed  cars  from  the  Union  Pacific  to 
the  Central  Pacific  line  of  railroad.  The  change  was 
doubly  welcome;  for,  first,  we  had  better  cars  on  the 
new  line;  and,  second,  those  in  which  we  had  been 
cooped  for  more  than  ninety  hours  had  begun  to  stink 
abominably.  Several  yards  away,  as  we  returned,  let 
us  say  from  dinner,  our  nostrils  were  assailed  by  rancid 
air.  I  have  stood  on  a  platform  while  the  whole  train 
was  shunting ;  and  as  the  dwelling-cars  drew  near, 
there  would  come  a  whiff  of  pure  menagerie,  only  a 
little  sourer,  as  from  men  instead  of  monkeys.  I  think 
we  are  human  only  in  virtue  of  open  windows.  With- 
out fresh  air,  you  only  require  a  bad  heart,  and  a  remark- 
able command  of  the  Queen's  English,  to  become  such 
another  as  Dean  Swift;  a  kind  of  leering,  human  goat, 
leaping  and  wagging  your  scut  on  mountains  of  offence. 
I  do  my  best  to  keep  my  head  the  other  way,  and  look 
for  the  human  rather  than  the  bestial  in  this  Yahoo-like 
business  of  the  emigrant  train.  But  one  thing  I  must 
say,  the  car  of  the  Chinese  was  notably  the  least  of- 
fensive. 

The  cars  on  the  Central  Pacific  were  nearly  twice  as 
high,  and  so  proportionally  airier;  they  were  freshly 
varnished,  which  gave  us  all  a  sense  of  cleanliness  as 
though  we  had  bathed ;  the  seats  drew  out  and  joined 
in  the  centre,  so  that  there  was  no  more  need  for  bed 

»34 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

boards ;  and  there  was  an  upper  tier  of  berths  which 
could  be  closed  by  day  and  opened  at  night. 

I  had  by  this  time  some  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
people  whom  I  was  among.  They  were  in  rather 
marked  contrast  to  the  emigrants  I  had  met  on  board 
ship  while  crossing  the  Atlantic.  They  were  mostly 
lumpish  fellows,  silent  and  noisy,  a  common  combina- 
tion ;  somewhat  sad,  I  should  say,  with  an  extraordinary 
poor  taste  in  humour,  and  little  interest  in  their  fellow- 
creatures  beyond  that  of  a  cheap  and  merely  external 
curiosity.  If  they  heard  a  man's  name  and  business, 
they  seemed  to  think  they  had  the  heart  of  that  mys- 
tery; but  they  were  as  eager  to  know  that  much  as 
they  were  indifferent  to  the  rest.  Some  of  them  were 
on  nettles  till  they  learned  your  name  was  Dickson 
and  you  a  journeyman  baker;  but  beyond  that,  whether 
you  were  Catholic  or  Mormon,  dull  or  clever,  fierce  or 
friendly,  was  all  one  to  them.  Others  who  were  not 
so  stupid,  gossiped  a  little,  and,  I  am  bound  to  say, 
unkindly.  A  favourite  witticism  was  for  some  lout  to 
raise  the  alarm  of  ''All  aboard!"  while  the  rest  of  us 
were  dining,  thus  contributing  his  mite  to  the  general 
discomfort.  Such  a  one  was  always  much  applauded 
for  his  high  spirits.  When  I  was  ill  coming  through 
Wyoming,  I  was  astonished  —  fresh  from  the  eager 
humanity  on  board  ship  —  to  meet  with  little  but  laugh- 
ter. One  of  the  young  men  even  amused  himself  by 
incommoding  me,  as  was  then  very  easy ;  and  that  not 
from  ill-nature,  but  mere  clodlike  incapacity  to  think, 
for  he  expected  me  to  join  the  laugh.  I  did  so,  but  it 
was  phantom  merriment.  Later  on,  a  man  from  Kan- 
sas had  three  violent  epileptic  fits,   and  though,   of 

135 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

course,  there  were  not  wanting  some  to  help  him,  it  was 
rather  superstitious  terror  than  sympathy  that  his  case 
evoked  among  his  fellow-passengers.  ''  Oh,  I  hope  he's 
not  going  to  die !  "  cried  a  woman ;  * '  it  would  be  terrible 
to  have  a  dead  body ! "  And  there  was  a  very  general 
movement  to  leave  the  man  behind  at  the  next  station. 
This,  by  good  fortune,  the  conductor  negatived. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  story-telling  in  some  quar- 
ters ;  in  others,  little  but  silence.  In  this  society,  more 
than  any  other  that  ever  I  was  in,  it  was  the  narrator 
alone  who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  narrative.  It  was  rarely 
that  any  one  listened  for  the  listening.  If  he  lent  an  ear 
to  another  man's  story,  it  was  because  he  was  in  im- 
mediate want  of  a  hearer  for  one  of  his  own.  Food  and 
the  progress  of  the  train  were  the  subjects  most  gen- 
erally treated ;  many  joined  to  discuss  these  who  other- 
wise would  hold  their  tongues.  One  small  knot  had  no 
better  occupation  than  to  worm  out  of  me  my  name; 
and  the  more  they  tried,  the  more  obstinately  fixed  I 
grew  to  baffle  them.  They  assailed  me  with  artful 
questions  and  insidious  offers  of  correspondence  in  the 
future ;  but  I  was  perpetually  on  my  guard,  and  parried 
their  assaults  with  inward  laughter.  I  am  sure  Du- 
buque would  have  given  me  ten  dollars  for  the  secret. 
He  owed  me  far  more,  had  he  understood  life,  for  thus 
preserving  him  a  lively  interest  throughout  the  journey. 
I  met  one  of  my  fellow-passengers  months  after,  driv- 
ing a  street  tramway  car  in  San  Francisco ;  and,  as  the 
joke  was  now  out  of  season,  told  him  my  name  with- 
out subterfuge.  You  never  saw  a  man  more  chopfallen. 
But  had  my  name  been  Demogorgon,  after  so  prolonged 
a  mystery  he  had  still  been  disappointed. 

156 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

There  were  no  emigrants  direct  from  Europe  —  save 
one  German  family  and  a  knot  of  Cornish  miners  who 
kept  grimly  by  themselves,  one  reading  the  New  Tes- 
tament all  day  long  through  steel  spectacles,  the  rest 
discussing  privately  the  secrets  of  their  old-world,  mys- 
terious race.  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  believed  she  could 
make  something  great  of  the  Cornish ;  for  my  part,  I 
can  make  nothing  of  them  at  all.  A  division  of  races, 
older  and  more  original  than  that  of  Babel,  keeps  this 
close,  esoteric  family  apart  from  neighbouring  English- 
men. Not  even  a  Red  Indian  seems  more  foreign  in 
my  eyes.  This  is  one  of  the  lessons  of  travel  —  that 
some  of  the  strangest  races  dwell  next  door  to  you  at 
home. 

The  rest  were  all  American  born,  but  they  came  from 
almost  every  quarter  of  that  Continent.  All  the  States 
of  the  North  had  sent  out  a  fugitive  to  cross  the  plains 
with  me.  From  Virginia,  from  Pennsylvania,  from  New 
York,  from  far  western  Iowa  and  Kansas,  from  Maine 
that  borders  on  the  Canadas,  and  from  the  Canadas 
themselves  —  some  one  or  two  were  fleeing  in  quest  of 
a  better  land  and  better  wages.  The  talk  in  the  train, 
like  the  talk  I  heard  on  the  steamer,  ran  upon  hard 
times,  short  commons,  and  hope  that  moves  ever  west- 
ward. I  thought  of  my  shipful  from  Great  Britain  with 
a  feeling  of  despair.  They  had  come  3000  miles,  and 
yet  not  far  enough.  Hard  times  bowed  them  out  of  the 
Clyde,  and  stood  to  welcome  them  at  Sandy  Hook. 
Where  were  they  to  go  ?  Pennsylvania,  Maine,  Iowa, 
Kansas  ?  These  were  not  places  for  immigration,  but 
for  emigration,  it  appeared;  not  one  of  them,  but  I 
knew  a  man  who  had  lifted  up  his  heel  and  left  it  for  an 

137 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

ungrateful  country.  And  it  was  still  westward  that  they 
ran.  Hunger,  you  would  have  thought,  came  out  of 
the  east  like  the  sun,  and  the  evening  was  made  of  edi- 
ble gold.  And,  meantime,  in  the  car  in  front  of  me, 
were  there  not  half  a  hundred  emigrants  from  the  oppo- 
site quarter  ?  Hungry  Europe  and  hungry  China,  each 
pouring  from  their  gates  in  search  of  provender,  had 
here  come  face  to  face.  The  two  waves  had  met;  east 
and  west  had  alike  failed;  the  whole  round  world  had 
been  prospected  and  condemned;  there  was  no  El 
Dorado  anywhere;  and  till  one  could  emigrate  to  the 
moon,  it  seemed  as  well  to  stay  patiently  at  home.  Nor 
was  there  wanting  another  sign,  at  once  more  pictu- 
resque and  more  disheartening;  for,  as  we  continued  to 
steam  westward  toward  the  land  of  gold,  we  were 
continually  passing  other  emigrant  trains  upon  the 
journey  east;  and  these  were  as  crowded  as  our  own. 
Had  all  these  return  voyagers  made  a  fortune  in  the 
mines  ?  Were  they  all  bound  for  Paris,  and  to  be  in 
Rome  by  Easter.^  It  would  seem  not,  for,  whenever 
we  met  them,  the  passengers  ran  on  the  platform  and 
cried  to  us  through  the  windows,  in  a  kind  of  wailing 
chorus,  to  ''Come  back."  On  the  plains  of  Nebraska, 
in  the  mountains  of  Wyoming,  it  was  still  the  same 
cry,  and  dismal  to  my  heart,  "Come  back!"  That 
was  what  we  heard  by  the  way  ''about  the  good  coun- 
try we  were  going  to."  And  at  that  very  hour  the 
Sand-lot  of  San  Francisco  was  crowded  with  the  un- 
employed, and  the  echo  from  the  other  side  of  Market 
Street  was  repeating  the  rant  of  demagogues. 

If,  in  truth,  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  wages  that 
men  emigrate,  how  many  thousands  would  regret  the 

138 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

bargain!  But  wages,  indeed,  are  only  one  considera- 
tion out  of  many;  for  we  are  a  race  of  gipsies,  and 
love  change  and  travel  for  themselves. 

DESPISED   RACES 

Of  all  stupid  ill-feelings,  the  sentiment  of  my  fellow- 
Caucasians  towards  our  companions  in  the  Chinese  car 
was  the  most  stupid  and  the  worst.  They  seemed 
never  to  have  looked  at  them,  listened  to  them,  or 
thought  of  them,  but  hated  them  a  priori.  The  Mongols 
were  their  enemies  in  that  cruel  and  treacherous  battle- 
field of  money.  They  could  work  better  and  cheaper 
in  half  a  hundred  industries,  and  hence  there  was  no 
calumny  too  idle  for  the  Caucasians  to  repeat,  and  even 
to  believe.  They  declared  them  hideous  vermin,  and 
affected  a  kind  of  choking  in  the  throat  when  they  be- 
held them.  Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  young  Chi- 
nese man  is  so  like  a  large  class  of  European  women, 
that  on  raising  my  head  and  suddenly  catching  sight  of 
one  at  a  considerable  distance,  I  have  for  an  instant 
been  deceived  by  the  resemblance.  I  do  not  say  it  is 
the  most  attractive  class  of  our  women,  but  for  all  that 
many  a  man's  wife  is  less  pleasantly  favoured.  Again, 
my  emigrants  declared  that  the  Chinese  were  dirty. 
I  cannot  say  they  were  clean,  for  that  was  impossible 
upon  the  journey;  but  in  their  efforts  after  cleanliness 
they  put  the  rest  of  us  to  shame.  We  all  pigged  and 
stewed  in  one  infamy,  wet  our  hands  and  faces  for  half 
a  minute  daily  on  the  platform,  and  were  unashamed. 
But  the  Chinese  never  lost  an  opportunity,  and  you 
would  see  them  washing  their  feet  —  an  act  not  dreamed 

^39 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

of  among  ourselves  —  and  going  as  far  as  decency  per- 
mitted to  wash  their  whole  bodies.  I  may  remark  by 
the  way  that  the  dirtier  people  are  in  their  persons  the 
more  delicate  is  their  sense  of  modesty.  A  clean  man 
strips  in  a  crowded  boathouse;  but  he  who  is  unwashed 
slinks  in  and  out  of  bed  without  uncovering  an  inch  of 
skin.  Lastly,  these  very  foul  and  malodorous  Cauca- 
sians entertained  the  surprising  illusion  that  it  was  the 
Chinese  waggon,  and  that  alone,  which  stank.  I  have 
said  already  that  it  was  the  exception,  and  notably  the 
freshest  of  the  three. 

These  judgments  are  typical  of  the  feeling  in  all  West- 
ern America.  The  Chinese  are  considered  stupid,  be- 
cause they  are  imperfectly  acquainted  with  English. 
They  are  held  to  be  base,  because  their  dexterity  and 
frugality  enable  them  to  underbid  the  lazy,  luxurious 
Caucasian.  They  are  said  to  be  thieves;  I  am  sure  they 
have  no  monopoly  of  that.  They  are  called  cruel;  the 
Anglo-Saxon  and  the  cheerful  Irishman  may  each  reflect 
before  he  bears  the  accusation.  I  am  told,  again,  that 
they  are  of  the  race  of  river  pirates,  and  belong  to  the 
most  despised  and  dangerous  class  in  the  Celestial  Em- 
pire. But  if  this  be  so,  what  remarkable  pirates  have 
we  here!  and  what  must  be  the  virtues,  the  industry, 
the  education,  and  the  intelligence  of  their  superiors  at 
home ! 

Awhile  ago  it  was  the  Irish,  now  it  is  the  Chinese 
that  must  go.  Such  is  the  cry.  It  seems,  after  all,  that 
no  country  is  bound  to  submit  to  immigration  any  more 
than  to  invasion :  each  is  war  to  the  knife,  and  resistance 
to  either  but  legitimate  defence.  Yet  we  may  regret 
the  free  tradition  of  the  republic,  which  loved  to  depict 

140 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

herself  with  open  arms,  welcoming  all  unfortunates. 
And  certainly,  as  a  man  who  believes  that  he  loves  free- 
dom, I  may  be  excused  some  bitterness  when  I  find  her 
sacred  name  misused  in  the  contention.  It  was  but  the 
other  day  that  I  heard  a  vulgar  fellow  in  the  Sand-lot, 
the  popular  tribune  of  San  Francisco,  roaring  for  arms 
and  butchery.  '*  At  the  call  of  Abreham  Lincoln,"  said 
the  orator,  "  ye  rose  in  the  name  of  freedom  to  set  free 
the  negroes ;  can  ye  not  rise  and  liberate  yourselves  from 
a  few  dhirty  Mongolians  ?*' 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  look  but  with  wonder 
and  respect  on  the  Chinese.  Their  forefathers  watched 
the  stars  before  mine  had  begun  to  keep  pigs.  Gun- 
powder and  printing,  which  the  other  day  we  imitated, 
and  a  school  of  manners  which  we  never  had  the  deli- 
cacy so  much  as  to  desire  to  imitate,  were  theirs  in  a 
long-past  antiquity.  They  walk  the  earth  with  us,  but 
it  seems  they  must  be  of  different  clay.  They  hear  the 
clock  strike  the  same  hour,  yet  surely  of  a  different 
epoch.  They  travel  by  steam  conveyance,  yet  with 
such  a  baggage  of  old  Asiatic  thoughts  and  superstitions 
as  might  check  the  locomotive  in  its  course.  Whatever 
is  thought  within  the  circuit  of  the  Great  Wall ;  what 
the  wry-eyed,  spectacled  schoolmaster  teaches  in  the 
hamlets  round  Pekin ;  religions  so  old  that  our  language 
looks  a  halfling  boy  alongside ;  philosophy  so  wise  that 
our  best  philosophers  find  things  therein  to  wonder  at; 
all  this  travelled  alongside  of  me  for  thousands  of  miles 
over  plain  and  mountain.  Heaven  knows  if  we  had 
one  common  thought  or  fancy  all  that  way,  or  whether 
our  eyes,  which  yet  were  formed  upon  the  same  design, 
beheld  the  same  world  out  of  the  railway  windows. 

141 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

And  when  either  of  us  turned  his  thoughts  to  home  and 
childhood,  what  a  strange  dissimilarity  must  there  not 
have  been  in  these  pictures  of  the  mind  —  when  I  be- 
held that  old,  gray,  castled  city,  high  throned  above  the 
firth,  with  the  flag  of  Britain  flying,  and  the  red-coat 
sentry  pacing  over  all;  and  the  man  in  the  next  car  to 
me  would  conjure  up  some  junks  and  a  pagoda  and  a 
fort  of  porcelain,  and  call  it,  with  the  same  affection, 
home. 

Another  race  shared  among  my  fellow-passengers  in 
the  disfavour  of  the  Chinese ;  and  that,  it  is  hardly  ne- 
cessary to  say,  was  the  noble  red  man  of  old  story  —  he 
over  whose  own  hereditary  continent  we  had  been 
steaming  all  these  days.  I  saw  no  wild  or  independent 
Indian;  indeed,  I  hear  that  such  avoid  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  train ;  but  now  and  again  at  way  stations, 
a  husband  and  wife  and  a  few  children,  disgracefully 
dressed  out  with  the  sweepings  of  civilisation,  came 
forth  and  stared  upon  the  emigrants.  The  silent  stoicism 
of  their  conduct,  and  the  pathetic  degradation  of  their  ap- 
pearance, would  have  touched  any  thinking  creature,  but 
my  fellow-passengers  danced  and  jested  round  them  with 
a  truly  Cockney  baseness.  I  was  ashamed  for  the  thing 
we  call  civilisation.  We  should  carry  upon  our  con- 
sciences so  much,  at  least,  of  our  forefathers'  misconduct 
as  we  continue  to  profit  by  ourselves. 

If  oppression  drives  a  wise  man  mad,  what  should  be 
raging  in  the  hearts  of  these  poor  tribes,  who  have  been 
driven  back  and  back,  step  after  step,  their  promised 
reservations  torn  from  them  one  after  another  as  the 
States  extended  westward,  until  at  length  they  are  shut 
up  into  these  hideous  mountain  deserts  of  the  centre  — 

142 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

and  even  there  find  themselves  invaded,  insulted,  and 
hunted  out  by  ruffianly  diggers  ?  The  eviction  of  the 
Cherokees  (to  name  but  an  instance),  the  extortion  of 
Indian  agents,  the  outrages  of  the  wicked,  the  ill-faith  of 
all,  nay,  down  to  the  ridicule  of  such  poor  beings  as 
were  here  with  me  upon  the  train,  make  up  a  chapter 
of  injustice  and  indignity  such  as  a  man  must  be  in  some 
ways  base  if  his  heart  will  suffer  him  to  pardon  or  for- 
get. These  old,  well-founded,  historical  hatreds  have 
a  savour  of  nobility  for  the  independent.  That  the  Jew 
should  not  love  the  Christian,  nor  the  Irishman  love  the 
English,  nor  the  Indian  brave  tolerate  the  thought  of  the 
American,  is  not  disgraceful  to  the  nature  of  man ;  rather, 
indeed,  honourable,  since  it  depends  on  wrongs  ancient 
like  the  race,  and  not  personal  to  him  who  cherishes 
the  indignation. 

TO  THE    GOLDEN   GATES 

A  LITTLE  corner  of  Utah  is  soon  traversed,  and  leaves 
no  particular  impressions  on  the  mind.  By  an  early 
hour  on  Wednesday  morning  we  stopped  to  breakfast 
at  Toano,  a  little  station  on  a  bleak,  high-lying  plateau 
in  Nevada.  The  man  who  kept  the  station  eating-house 
was  a  Scot,  and  learning  that  I  was  the  same,  he  grew 
very  friendly,  and  gave  me  some  advice  on  the  country 
I  was  now  entering.  "You  see,"  said  he,  "I  tell  you 
this,  because  I  come  from  your  country."  Hail,  brither 
Scots ! 

His  most  important  hint  was  on  the  moneys  of  this 
part  of  the  world.  There  is  something  in  the  simplicity 
of  a  decimal  coinage  which  is  revolting  to  the  human 
mind;  thus  the  French,  in  small  affairs,  reckon  strictly 

143 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

by  halfpence ;  and  you  have  to  solve,  by  a  spasm  of 
mental  arithmetic,  such  posers  as  thirty-two,  forty-five, 
or  even  a  hundred  halfpence.  In  the  Pacific  States  they 
have  made  a  bolder  push  for  complexity,  and  settle  their 
affairs  by  a  coin  that  no  longer  exists — the  bit,  or  old 
Mexican  real.  The  supposed  value  of  the  bit  is  twelve 
and  a  half  cents,  eight  to  the  dollar.  When  it  comes 
to  two  bits,  the  quarter-dollar  stands  for  the  required 
amount.  But  how  about  an  odd  bit  ?  The  nearest  coin 
to  it  is  a  dime,  which  is  short  by  a  fifth.  That,  then,  is 
called  a  short  bit.  If  you  have  one,  you  lay  it  trium- 
phantly down,  and  save  two  and  a  half  cents.  But  if  you 
have  not,  and  lay  down  a  quarter,  the  bar-keeper  or 
shopman  calmly  tenders  you  a  dime  by  way  of  change ; 
and  thus  you  have  paid  what  is  called  a  long  bit,  and 
lost  two  and  a  half  cents,  or  even,  by  comparison  with 
a  short  bit,  five  cents.  In  country  places  all  over  the 
Pacific  coast,  nothing  lower  than  a  bit  is  ever  asked  or 
taken,  which  vastly  increases  the  cost  of  life ;  as  even  for 
a  glass  of  beer  you  must  pay  fivepence  or  sevenpence- 
halfpenny,  as  the  case  may  be.  You  would  say  that 
this  system  of  mutual  robbery  was  as  broad  as  it  was 
long ;  but  I  have  discovered  a  plan  to  make  it  broader, 
with  which  I  here  endow  the  public.  It  is  brief  and 
simple  —  radiantly  simple.  There  is  one  place  where 
five  cents  are  recognised,  and  that  is  the  post-office.  A 
quarter  is  only  worth  two  bits,  a  short  and  a  long. 
Whenever  you  have  a  quarter,  go  to  the  post-office  and 
buy  five  cents'  worth  of  postage-stamps ;  you  will  receive 
in  change  two  dimes,  that  is,  two  short  bits.  The  pur- 
chasing power  of  your  money  is  undiminished.  You 
can  go  and  have  your  two  glasses  of  beer  all  the  same; 

144 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

and  you  have  made  yourself  a  present  of  five  cents'  worth 
of  postage-stamps  into  the  bargain.  Benjamin  Franklin 
u^ould  have  patted  me  on  the  head  for  this  discovery. 

From  Toano  we  travelled  all  day  through  deserts  of 
alkali  and  sand,  horrible  to  man,  and  bare  sage-brush 
country  that  seemed  little  kindlier,  and  came  by  supper- 
time  to  Elko.  As  we  were  standing,  after  our  manner, 
outside  the  station,  I  saw  two  men  whip  suddenly  from 
underneath  the  cars,  and  take  to  their  heels  across  coun- 
try. They  were  tramps,  it  appeared,  who  had  been 
riding  on  the  beams  since  eleven  of  the  night  before; 
and  several  of  my  fellow-passengers  had  already  seen 
and  conversed  with  them  while  we  broke  our  fast  at 
Toano.  These  land  stowaways  play  a  great  part  over 
here  in  America,  and  I  should  have  liked  dearly  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  them. 

At  Elko  an  odd  circumstance  befell  me.  I  was  com- 
ing out  from  supper,  when  I  was  stopped  by  a  small, 
stout,  ruddy  man,  followed  by  two  others  taller  and 
ruddier  than  himself. 

''Ex-cuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  '*but  do  you  happen  to 
be  going  on?" 

I  said  I  was,  whereupon  he  said  he  hoped  to  persuade 
me  to  desist  from  that  intention.  He  had  a  situation  to 
offer  me,  and  if  we  could  come  to  terms,  why,  good 
and  well.  ''You  see,"  he  continued,  "Vm  runnings 
theatre  here,  and  we're  a  little  short  in  the  orchestra. 
You're  a  musician,  I  guess  .^" 

I  assured  him  that,  beyond  a  rudimentary  acquain- 
tance with  ''Auld  Lang  Syne"  and  ''The  Wearing  of 
the  Green,"  I  had  no  pretension  whatever  to  that  style. 
He  seemed  much  put  out  of  countenance;  and  one  of 

145 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

his  taller  companions  asked  him,  on  the  nail,  for  five 
dollars. 

**  You  see,  sir,"  added  the  latter  to  me,  "he  bet  you 
were  a  musician;  I  bet  you  weren't.  No  offence,  I 
hope.?" 

*'None  whatever,"  I  said,  and  the  two  withdrew  to 
the  bar,  where  I  presume  the  debt  was  liquidated. 

This  little  adventure  woke  bright  hopes  in  my  fellow- 
travellers,  who  thought  they  had  now  come  to  a  coun- 
try where  situations  went  a-begging.  But  I  am  not  so 
sure  that  the  offer  was  in  good  faith.  Indeed,  I  am  more 
than  half  persuaded  it  was  but  a  feeler  to  decide  the  bet. 

Of  all  the  next  day  I  will  tell  you  nothing,  for  the 
best  of  all  reasons,  that  I  remember  no  more  than  that 
we  continued  through  desolate  and  desert  scenes,  fiery 
hot  and  deadly  weary.  But  some  time  after  I  had 
fallen  asleep  that  night,  I  was  awakened  by  one  of  my 
companions.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  resisted.  A  fire  of 
enthusiasm  and  whisky  burned  in  his  eyes ;  and  he  de- 
clared we  were  in  a  new  country,  and  I  must  come 
forth  upon  the  platform  and  see  with  my  own  eyes. 
The  train  was  then,  in  its  patient  way,  standing  halted 
in  a  by-track.  It  was  a  clear,  moonlit  night;  but  the 
valley  was  too  narrow  to  admit  the  moonshine  direct, 
and  only  a  diffused  glimmer  whitened  the  tall  rocks 
and  relieved  the  blackness  of  the  pines.  A  hoarse  clam- 
our filled  the  air;  it  was  the  continuous  plunge  of  a 
cascade  somewhere  near  at  hand  among  the  mountains. 
The  air  struck  chill,  but  tasted  good  and  vigorous  in 
the  nostrils  —  a  fine,  dry,  old  mountain  atmosphere.  I 
was  dead  sleepy,  but  I  returned  to  roost  with  a  grateful 
mountain  feeling  at  my  heart. 

146 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 

When  I  awoke  next  morning,  I  was  puzzled  for  a 
while  to  know  if  it  were  day  or  night,  for  the  illumina- 
tion was  unusual.  I  sat  up  at  last,  and  found  we  were 
grading  slowly  downward  through  a  long  snowshed; 
and  suddenly  we  shot  into  an  open;  and  before  we 
were  swallowed  into  the  next  length  of  wooden  tunnel, 
I  had  one  glimpse  of  a  huge  pine-forested  ravine  upon 
my  left,  a  foaming  river,  and  a  sky  already  coloured 
with  the  fires  of  dawn.  I  am  usually  very  calm  over 
the  displays  of  nature ;  but  you  will  scarce  believe  how 
my  heart  leaped  at  this.  It  was  like  meeting  one's 
wife.  I  had  come  home  again  —  home  from  unsightly 
deserts  to  the  green  and  habitable  corners  of  the  earth. 
Every  spire  of  pine  along  the  hill-top,  every  trouty  pool 
along  that  mountain  river,  was  more  dear  to  me  than  a 
blood  relation.  Few  people  have  praised  God  more 
happily  than  I  did.  And  thenceforward,  down  by  Blue 
Canon,  Alta,  Dutch  Flat,  and  all  the  old  mining  camps, 
through  a  sea  of  mountain  forests,  dropping  thousands 
of  feet  toward  the  far  sea-level  as  we  went,  not  I  only, 
but  all  the  passengers  on  board,  threw  off  their  sense 
of  dirt  and  heat  and  weariness,  and  bawled  like  school- 
boys, and  thronged  with  shining  eyes  upon  the  plat- 
form and  became  new  creatures  within  and  without. 
The  sun  no  longer  oppressed  us  with  heat,  it  only  shone 
laughingly  along  the  mountain-side,  until  we  were  fain 
to  laugh  ourselves  for  glee.  At  every  turn  we  could  see 
farther  into  the  land  and  our  own  happy  futures.  At 
every  town  the  cocks  were  tossing  their  clear  notes 
into  the  golden  air,  and  crowing  for  the  new  day  and  the 
new  country.  For  this  was  indeed  our  destination ;  this 
was  **  the  good  country  "  we  had  been  going  to  so  long. 

»47 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS 

By  afternoon  we  were  at  Sacramento,  the  city  of  gar- 
dens in  a  plain  of  corn;  and  the  next  day  before  the 
dawn  we  were  lying  to  upon  the  Oakland  side  of  San 
Francisco  Bay.  The  day  was  breaking  as  we  crossed 
the  ferry ;  the  fog  was  rising  over  the  citied  hills  of  San 
Francisco ;  the  bay  was  perfect  —  not  a  ripple,  scarce  a 
stain,  upon  its  blue  expanse ;  everything  was  waiting, 
breathless,  for  the  sun.  A  spot  of  cloudy  gold  lit  first 
upon  the  head  of  Tamalpais,  and  then  widened  down- 
ward on  its  shapely  shoulder ;  the  air  seemed  to  awaken, 
and  began  to  sparkle ;  and  suddenly 

"  The  tall  hills  Titan  discovered," 

and  the  city  of  San  Francisco,  and  the  bay  of  gold  and 
corn,  were  lit  from  end  to  end  with  summer  daylight. 

[1879.] 


148 


II.   THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

THE   WOODS   AND   THE   PACIFIC 

The  Bay  of  Monterey  has  been  compared  by  no  less 
a  person  than  General  Sherman  to  a  bent  fishing-hook  ; 
and  the  comparison,  if  less  important  than  the  march 
through  Georgia,  still  shows  the  eye  of  a  soldier  for 
topography.  Santa  Cruz  sits  exposed  at  the  shank;  the 
mouth  of  the  Salinas  river  is  at  the  middle  of  the  bend ; 
and  Monterey  itself  is  cosily  ensconced  beside  the  barb. 
Thus  the  ancient  capital  of  California  faces  across  the 
bay,  while  the  Pacific  Ocean,  though  hidden  by  low  hills 
and  forests,  bombards  her  left  flank  and  rear  with  never- 
dying  surf.  In  front  of  the  town,  the  long  line  of  sea- 
beach  trends  north  and  north-west,  and  then  westward 
to  enclose  the  bay.  The  waves  which  lap  so  quietly 
about  the  jetties  of  Monterey  grow  louder  and  larger  in 
the  distance ;  you  can  see  the  breakers  leaping  high  and 
white  by  day ;  at  night,  the  outline  of  the  shore  is  traced 
in  transparent  silver  by  the  moonlight  and  the  flying 
foam;  and  from  all  round,  even  in  quiet  weather,  the 
low,  distant,  thrilling  roar  of  the  Pacific  hangs  over  the 
coast  and  the  adjacent  country  like  smoke  above  a 
battle. 

These  long  beaches  are  enticing  to  the  idle  man.  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  a  walk  more  solitary  and  at  the 

149 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC   CAPITAL 

same  time  more  exciting  to  the  mind.  Crowds  of  ducks 
and  sea-gulls  hover  over  the  sea.  Sandpipers  trot  in 
and  out  by  troops  after  the  retiring  waves,  trilling  to- 
gether in  a  chorus  of  infinitesimal  song.  Strange  sea- 
tangles,  new  to  the  European  eye,  the  bones  of  whales, 
or  sometimes  a  whole  whale's  carcase,  white  with  car- 
rion-gulls and  poisoning  the  wind,  lie  scattered  here 
and  there  along  the  sands.  The  waves  come  in  slowly, 
vast  and  green,  curve  their  translucent  necks,  and  burst 
with  a  surprising  uproar,  that  runs,  waxing  and  waning, 
up  and  down  the  long  key-board  of  the  beach.  The 
foam  of  these  great  ruins  mounts  in  an  instant  to  the 
ridge  of  the  sand  glacis,  swiftly  fleets  back  again,  and 
is  met  and  buried  by  the  next  breaker.  The  interest  is 
perpetually  fresh.  On  no  other  coast  that  I  know  shall 
you  enjoy,  in  calm,  sunny  weather,  such  a  spectacle  of 
Ocean's  greatness,  such  beauty  of  changing  colour,  or 
such  degrees  of  thunder  in  the  sound.  The  very  air  is 
more  than  usually  salt  by  this  Homeric  deep. 

Inshore,  a  tract  of  sand-hills  borders  on  the  beach. 
Here  and  there  a  lagoon,  more  or  less  brackish,  attracts 
the  birds  and  hunters.  A  rough,  spotty  undergrowth 
partially  conceals  the  sand.  The  crouching,  hardy,  live- 
oaks  flourish  singly  or  in  thickets  —  the  kind  of  wood 
for  murderers  to  crawl  among  —  and  here  and  there  the 
skirts  of  the  forest  extend  downward  from  the  hills 
with  a  floor  of  turf  and  long  aisles  of  pine-trees  hung 
with  Spaniard's  Beard.  Through  this  quaint  desert  the 
railway  cars  drew  near  to  Monterey  from  the  junction 
at  Salinas  City  —  though  that  and  so  many  other  things 
are  now  for  ever  altered  —  and  it  was  from  here  that  you 
had  the  first  view  of  the  old  township  lying  in  the  sands,. 

150 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

its  white  windmills  bickering  in  the  chill,  perpetual 
wind,  and  the  first  fogs  of  the  evening  drawing  drearily 
around  it  from  the  sea. 

The  one  common  note  of  all  this  country  is  the  haunt- 
ing presence  of  the  ocean.  A  great  faint  sound  of 
breakers  follows  you  high  up  into  the  inland  canons; 
the  roar  of  water  dwells  in  the  clean,  empty  rooms  of 
Monterey  as  in  a  shell  upon  the  chimney ;  go  where  you 
will,  you  have  but  to  pause  and  listen  to  hear  the  voice 
of  the  Pacific.  You  pass  out  of  the  town  to  the  south- 
west, and  mount  the  hill  among  pine  woods.  Glade, 
thicket,  and  grove  surround  you.  You  follow  winding 
sandy  tracks  that  lead  no  whither.  You  see  a  deer;  a 
multitude  of  quail  arises.  But  the  sound  of  the  sea 
still  follows  you  as  you  advance,  like  that  of  wind 
among  the  trees,  only  harsher  and  stranger  to  the  ear; 
and  when  at  length  you  gain  the  summit,  out  breaks  on 
every  hand  and  with  freshened  vigour,  that  same  un- 
ending, distant,  whispering  rumble  of  the  ocean;  for 
now  you  are  on  the  top  of  Monterey  peninsula,  and  the 
noise  no  longer  only  mounts  to  you  from  behind  along 
the  beach  towards  Santa  Cruz,  but  from  your  right  also, 
round  by  Chinatown  and  Pinos  lighthouse,  and  from 
down  before  you  to  the  mouth  of  the  Carmello  river. 
The  whole  woodland  is  begirt  with  thundering  surges. 
The  silence  that  immediately  surrounds  you  where  you 
stand  is  not  so  much  broken  as  it  is  haunted  by  this  dis- 
tant, circling  rumour.  It  sets  your  senses  upon  edge ; 
you  strain  your  attention ;  you  are  clearly  and  unusually 
conscious  of  small  sounds  near  at  hand;  you  walk  listen- 
ing like  an  Indian  hunter;  and  that  voice  of  the  Pacific 
is  a  sort  of  disquieting  company  to  you  in  your  walk. 

151 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

When  once  I  was  in  these  woods  I  found  it  difficult 
to  turn  homeward.  All  woods  lure  a  rambler  onward ; 
but  in  those  of  Monterey  it  was  the  surf  that  particularly 
invited  me  to  prolong  my  walks.  I  would  push  straight 
for  the  shore  where  I  thought  it  to  be  nearest.  Indeed, 
there  was  scarce  a  direction  that  would  not,  sooner  or 
later,  have  brought  me  forth  on  the  Pacific.  The  empti- 
ness of  the  woods  gave  me  a  sense  of  freedom  and  dis- 
covery in  these  excursions.  1  never  in  all  my  visits  met 
but  one  man.  He  was  a  Mexican,  very  dark  of  hue, 
but  smiling  and  fat,  and  he  carried  an  axe,  though  his 
true  business  at  that  moment  was  to  seek  for  straying 
cattle.  I  asked  him  what  o'clock  it  was,  but  he  seemed 
neither  to  know  nor  care ;  and  when  he  in  his  turn  asked 
me  for  news  of  his  cattle,  I  showed  myself  equally  in- 
different. We  stood  and  smiled  upon  each  other  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  then  turned  without  a  word  and  took 
our  several  ways  across  the  forest. 

One  day  —  I  shall  never  forget  it  —  I  had  taken  a  trail 
that  was  new  to  me.  After  a  while  the  woods  began 
to  open,  the  sea  to  sound  nearer  hand.  I  came  upon  a 
road,  and,  to  my  surprise,  a  stile.  A  step  or  two  farther, 
and,  without  leaving  the  woods,  I  found  myself  among 
trim  houses.  I  walked  through  street  after  street,  par- 
allel and  at  right  angles,  paved  with  sward  and  dotted 
with  trees,  but  still  undeniable  streets,  and  each  with  its 
name  posted  at  the  corner,  as  in  a  real  town.  Facing 
down  the  main  thoroughfare —  "  Central  Avenue,"  as 
it  was  ticketed  —  I  saw  an  open-air  temple,  with  benches 
and  sounding-board,  as  though  for  an  orchestra.  The 
houses  were  all  tightly  shuttered ;  there  was  no  smoke, 
no  sound  but  of  the  waves,  no  moving  thing.  I  have  never 

152 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

been  in  any  place  that  seemed  so  dreamlike.  Pompeii 
is  all  in  a  bustle  with  visitors,  and  its  antiquity  and 
strangeness  deceive  the  imagination ;  but  this  town  had 
plainly  not  been  built  above  a  year  or  two,  and  perhaps 
had  been  deserted  overnight.  Indeed,  it  was  not  so 
much  like  a  deserted  town  as  like  a  scene  upon  the  stage 
by  daylight,  and  with  no  one  on  the  boards.  The  bark- 
ing of  a  dog  led  me  at  last  to  the  only  house  still  occu- 
pied, where  a  Scotch  pastor  and  his  wife  pass  the  winter 
alone  in  this  empty  theatre.  The  place  was  '*  The  Pa- 
cific Camp  Grounds,  the  Christian  Seaside  Resort." 
Thither,  in  the  warm  season,  crowds  come  to  enjoy  a 
life  of  teetotalism,  religion,  and  flirtation,  which  I  am 
willing  to  think  blameless  and  agreeable.  The  neigh- 
bourhood at  least  is  well  selected.  The  Pacific  booms 
in  front.  Westward  is  Point  Pinos,  with  the  light- 
house in  a  wilderness  of  sand,  where  you  will  find  the 
lightkeeper  playing  the  piano,  making  models  and  bows 
and  arrows,  studying  dawn  and  sunrise  in  amateur  oil- 
painting,  and  with  a  dozen  other  elegant  pursuits  and 
interests  to  surprise  his  brave,  old-country  rivals.  To 
the  east,  and  still  nearer,  you  will  come  upon  a  space  of 
open  down,  a  hamlet,  a  haven  among  rocks,  a  world  of 
surge  and  screaming  sea-gulls.  Such  scenes  are  very 
similar  in  different  climates ;  they  appear  homely  to  the 
eyes  of  all ;  to  me  this  was  like  a  dozen  spots  in  Scot- 
land. And  yet  the  boats  that  ride  in  the  haven  are  of 
strange  outlandish  design ;  and,  if  you  walk  into  the 
hamlet,  you  will  behold  costumes  and  faces  and  hear  a 
tongue  that  are  unfamiliar  to  the  memory.  The  joss- 
stick  burns,  the  opium  pipe  is  smoked,  the  floors  are 
strewn   with    slips  of  coloured  paper  —  prayers,  you 

153 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC   CAPITAL 

would  say,  that  had  somehow  missed  their  destination  — 
and  a  man  guiding  his  upright  pencil  from  right  to  left 
across  the  sheet,  writes  home  the  news  of  Monterey  to 
the  Celestial  Empire. 

The  woods  and  the  Pacific  rule  between  them  the 
climate  of  this  seaboard  region.  On  the  streets  of 
Monterey,  when  the  air  does  not  smell  salt  from  the 
one,  it  will  be  blowing  perfumed  from  the  resinous  tree- 
tops  of  the  other.  For  days  together  a  hot,  dry  air  will 
overhang  the  town,  close  as  from  an  oven,  yet  healthful 
and  aromatic  in  the  nostrils.  The  cause  is  not  far  to 
seek,  for  the  woods  are  afire,  and  the  hot  wind  is  blow- 
ing from  the  hills.  These  fires  are  one  of  the  great 
dangers  of  California.  I  have  seen  from  Monterey  as 
many  as  three  at  the  same  time,  by  day  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
by  night  a  red  coal  of  conflagration  in  the  distance.  A 
little  thing  will  start  them,  and,  if  the  wind  be  favour- 
able, they  gallop  over  miles  of  country  faster  than  a 
horse.  The  inhabitants  must  turn  out  and  work  like 
demons,  for  it  is  not  only  the  pleasant  groves  that  are  de- 
stroyed ;  the  climate  and  the  soil  are  equally  at  stake, 
and  these  fires  prevent  the  rains  of  the  next  winter  and 
dry  up  perennial  fountains.  California  has  been  a  land 
of  promise  in  its  time,  like  Palestine ;  but  if  the  woods 
continue  so  swiftly  to  perish,  it  may  become,  like  Pales- 
tine, a  land  of  desolation. 

To  visit  the  woods  while  they  are  languidly  burning 
is  a  strange  piece  of  experience.  The  fire  passes  through 
the  underbrush  at  a  run.  Every  here  and  there  a  tree 
flares  up  instantaneously  from  root  to  summit,  scatter- 
ing tufts  of  flame,  and  is  quenched,  it  seems,  as  quickly. 
But  this  last  is  only  in  semblance.     For  after  this  first 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

squib-like  conflagration  of  the  dry  moss  and  twigs,  there 
remains  behind  a  deep-rooted  and  consuming  fire  in  the 
very  entrails  of  the  tree.  The  resin  of  the  pitch-pine  is 
principally  condensed  at  the  base  of  the  bole  and  in  the 
spreading  roots.  Thus,  after  the  light,  showy,  skir- 
mishing flames,  which  are  only  as  the  match  to  the  ex- 
plosion, have  already  scampered  down  the  wind  into 
the  distance,  the  true  harm  is  but  beginning  for  this 
giant  of  the  woods.  You  may  approach  the  tree  from 
one  side,  and  see  it,  scorched  indeed  from  top  to  bottom, 
but  apparently  survivor  of  the  peril.  Make  the  circuit, 
and  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  column,  is  a  clear 
mass  of  living  coal,  spreading  like  an  ulcer;  while  un- 
derground, to  their  most  extended  fibre,  the  roots  are 
being  eaten  out  by  fire,  and  the  smoke  is  rising  through 
the  fissures  to  the  surface.  A  little  while,  and,  without 
a  nod  of  warning,  the  huge  pine-tree  snaps  off  short 
across  the  ground  and  falls  prostrate  with  a  crash. 
Meanwhile  the  fire  continues  its  silent  business;  the 
roots  are  reduced  to  a  fine  ash ;  and  long  afterwards,  if 
you  pass  by,  you  will  find  the  earth  pierced  with  radiat- 
ing galleries,  and  preserving  the  design  of  all  these  sub- 
terranean spurs,  as  though  it  were  the  mould  for  a  new 
tree  instead  of  the  print  of  an  old  one.  These  pitch- 
pines  of  Monterey  are,  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
Monterey  cypress,  the  most  fantastic  of  forest  trees. 
No  words  can  give  an  idea  of  the  contortion  of  their 
growth ;  they  might  figure  without  change  in  a  circle  of 
the  nether  hell  as  Dante  pictured  it;  and  at  the  rate  at 
which  trees  grow,  and  at  which  forest  fires  spring  up 
and  gallop  through  the  hills  of  California,  we  may  look 
forward  to  a  time  when  there  will  not  be  one  of  them 

155 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

left  Standing  in  that  land  of  their  nativity.  At  least  they 
have  not  so  much  to  fear  from  the  axe,  but  perish  by 
what  may  be  called  a  natural  although  a  violent  death ; 
while  it  is  man  in  his  short-sighted  greed  that  robs  the 
country  of  the  nobler  red-wood.  Yet  a  little  while  and 
perhaps  all  the  hills  of  sea-board  California  may  be  as 
bald  as  Tamalpais. 

I  have  an  interest  of  my  own  in  these  forest  fires,  for 
I  came  so  near  to  lynching  on  one  occasion,  that  a 
braver  man  might  have  retained  a  thrill  from  the  ex- 
perience. I  wished  to  be  certain  whether  it  was  the 
moss,  that  quaint  funereal  ornament  of  Californian  for- 
ests, which  blazed  up  so  rapidly  when  the  flame  first 
touched  the  tree.  I  suppose  I  must  have  been  under 
the  influence  of  Satan,  for  instead  of  plucking  off  a  piece 
for  my  experiment,  what  should  1  do  but  walk  up  to  a 
great  pine-tree  in  a  portion  of  the  wood  which  had  es- 
caped so  much  as  scorching,  strike  a  match,  and  apply  the 
flame  gingerly  to  one  of  the  tassels.  The  tree  went  off 
simply  like  a  rocket;  in  three  seconds  it  was  a  roaring 
pillar  of  fire.  Close  by  1  could  hear  the  shouts  of  those 
who  were  at  work  combating  the  original  conflagration. 
I  could  see  the  waggon  that  had  brought  them  tied  to  a 
live  oak  in  a  piece  of  open ;  1  could  even  catch  the  flash 
of  an  axe  as  it  swung  up  through  the  underwood  into 
the  sunlight.  Had  any  one  observed  the  result  of  my 
experiment  my  neck  was  literally  not  worth  a  pinch  of 
snuff;  after  a  few  minutes  of  passionate  expostulation  I 
should  have  been  run  up  to  a  convenient  bough. 

To  die  for  faction  is  a  common  evil; 
But  to  be  hanged  for  nonsense  is  the  devil. 
156 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC   CAPITAL 

I  have  run  repeatedly,  but  never  as  I  ran  that  day.  At 
night  I  went  out  of  town,  and  there  was  my  own  par- 
ticular fire,  quite  distinct  from  the  other,  and  burning  as 
I  thought  with  even  greater  vigour. 

But  it  is  the  Pacific  that  exercises  the  most  direct  and 
obvious  power  upon  the  climate.  At  sunset,  for  months 
together,  vast,  wet,  melancholy  fogs  arise  and  come 
shoreward  from  the  ocean.  From  the  hill-top  above 
Monterey  the  scene  is  often  noble,  although  it  is  always 
sad.  The  upper  air  is  still  bright  with  sunlight;  a  glow 
still  rests  upon  the  Gabelano  Peak ;  but  the  fogs  are  in 
possession  of  the  lower  levels;  they  crawl  in  scarves 
among  the  sandhills;  they  float,  a  little  higher,  in  clouds 
of  a  gigantic  size  and  often  of  a  wild  configuration;  to 
the  south,  where  they  have  struck  the  seaward  shoulder 
of  the  mountains  of  Santa  Lucia,  they  double  back  and 
spire  up  skyward  like  smoke.  Where  their  shadow 
touches,  colour  dies  out  of  the  world.  The  air  grows 
chill  and  deadly  as  they  advance.  The  trade-wind 
freshens,  the  trees  begin  to  sigh,  and  all  the  wind- 
mills in  Monterey  are  whirling  and  creaking  and  fill- 
ing their  cisterns  with  the  brackish  water  of  the  sands. 
It  takes  but  a  little  while  till  the  invasion  is  complete. 
The  sea,  in  its  lighter  order,  has  submerged  the  earth. 
Monterey  is  curtained  in  for  the  night  in  thick,  wet, 
salt,  and  frigid  clouds,  so  to  remain  till  day  returns; 
and  before  the  sun's  rays  they  slowly  disperse  and 
retreat  in  broken  squadrons  to  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
And  yet  often  when  the  fog  is  thickest  and  most 
chill,  a  few  steps  out  of  the  town  and  up  the  slope, 
the  night  will  be  dry  and  warm  and  full  of  inland 
perfume. 

157 


THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 
MEXICANS,   AMERICANS,    AND   INDIANS 

The  history  of  Monterey  has  yet  to  be  written. 
Founded  by  Catholic  missionaries,  a  place  of  wise 
beneficence  to  Indians,  a  place  of  arms,  a  Mexican  cap- 
ital continually  wrested  by  one  faction  from  another,  an 
American  capital  wnen  the  first  House  of  Representa- 
tives held  its  deliberations,  and  then  falling  lower  and 
lower  from  the  capital  of  the  State  to  the  capital  of  a 
county,  and  from  that  again,  by  the  loss  of  its  charter 
and  town  lands,  to  a  mere  bankrupt  village,  its  rise  and 
decline  is  typical  of  that  of  all  Mexican  institutions  and 
even  Mexican  families  in  California. 

Nothing  is  stranger  in  that  strange  State  than  the  ra- 
pidity with  which  the  soil  has  changed  hands.  The 
Mexicans,  you  may  say,  are  all  poor  and  landless,  like 
their  former  capital;  and  yet  both  it  and  they  hold 
themselves  apart  and  preserve  their  ancient  customs 
and  something  of  their  ancient  air. 

The  town,  when  I  was  there,  was  a  place  of  two  or 
three  streets,  economically  paved  with  sea-sand,  and 
two  or  three  lanes,  which  were  watercourses  in  the 
rainy  season,  and  were,  at  all  times,  rent  up  by  fissures 
four  or  five  feet  deep.  There  were  no  street  lights. 
Short  sections  of  wooden  sidewalk  only  added  to  the 
dangers  of  the  night,  for  they  were  often  high  above 
the  level  of  the  roadway,  and  no  one  could  tell  where 
they  would  be  likely  to  begin  or  end.  The  houses 
were,  for  the  most  part,  built  of  unbaked  adobe  brick, 
many  of  them  old  for  so  new  a  country,  some  of  very 
elegant  proportions,  with  low,  spacious,  shapely  rooms, 
and  walls  so  thick  that  the  heat  of  summer  never  dried 

158 


THE   OLD   PACIFIC   CAPITAL 

them  to  the  heart.  At  the  approach  of  the  rainy  season 
a  deathly  chill  and  a  graveyard  smell  began  to  hang 
about  the  lower  floors ;  and  diseases  of  the  chest  are 
common  and  fatal  among  house-keeping  people  of 
either  sex. 

There  was  no  activity  but  in  and  around  the  saloons, 
where  people  sat  almost  all  day  long  playing  cards. 
The  smallest  excursion  was  made  on  horseback.  You 
would  scarcely  ever  see  the  main  street  without  a  horse 
or  two  tied  to  posts,  and  making  a  fine  figure  with  their 
Mexican  housings.  It  struck  me  oddly  to  come  across 
some  of  the  Cornhill  illustrations  to  Mr.  Blackmore's 
Erema,  and  see  all  the  characters  astride  on  English  sad- 
dles. As  a  matter  of  fact,  an  English  saddle  is  a  rarity  even 
\n  San  Francisco,  and,  you  may  say,  a  thing  unknown 
in  all  the  rest  of  California.  In  a  place  so  exclusively 
Mexican  as  Monterey,  you  saw  not  only  Mexican  sad- 
dles but  true  Vaquero  riding  —  men  always  at  the  hand- 
gallop  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and  round  the  sharpest 
corner,  urging  their  horses  with  cries  and  gesticulations 
and  cruel  rotatory  spurs,  checking  them  dead  with  a 
touch,  or  wheeling  them  right-about-face  in  a  square 
yard.  The  type  of  face  and  character  of  bearing  are 
surprisingly  un-American.  The  first  ranged  from  some- 
thing like  the  pure  Spanish,  to  something,  in  its  sad 
fixity,  not  unlike  the  pure  Indian,  although  I  do  not 
suppose  there  was  one  pure  blood  of  either  race  in  all 
the  country.  As  for  the  second,  it  was  a  matter  of 
perpetual  surprise  to  find,  in  that  world  of  absolutely 
mannerless  Americans,  a  people  full  of  deportment, 
solemnly  courteous,  and  doing  all  things  with  grace 
and  decorum.     In  dress  they  ran  to  colour  and  bright 

159 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

sashes.  Not  even  the  most  Americanised  could  always 
resist  the  temptation  to  stick  a  red  rose  into  his  hat- 
band. Not  even  the  most  Americanised  would  de- 
scend to  wear  the  vile  dress  hat  of  civilisation.  Spanish 
was  the  language  of  the  streets.  It  was  difficult  to  get 
along  without  a  word  or  two  of  that  language  for  an 
occasion.  The  only  communications  in  which  the  pop- 
ulation joined  were  with  a  view  to  amusement.  A 
weekly  public  ball  took  place  with  great  etiquette,  in 
addition  to  the  numerous  fandangoes  in  private  houses. 
There  was  a  really  fair  amateur  brass  band.  Night  after 
night  serenaders  would  be  going  about  the  street, 
sometimes  in  a  company  and  with  several  instruments 
and  voices  together,  sometimes  severally,  each  guitar 
before  a  different  window.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to 
lie  awake  in  nineteenth-century  America,  and  hear  the 
guitar  accompany,  and  one  of  these  old,  heart-breaking 
Spanish  love  songs  mount  into  the  night  air,  perhaps 
in  a  deep  baritone,  perhaps  in  that  high-pitched,  pa- 
thetic, womanish  alto  which  is  so  common  among 
Mexican  men,  and  which  strikes  on  the  unaccustomed 
ear  as  something  not  entirely  human  but  altogether  sad. 
The  town,  then,  was  essentially  and  wholly  Mexican ; 
and  yet  almost  all  the  land  in  the  neighbourhood  was 
held  by  Americans,  and  it  was  from  the  same  class,  nu- 
merically so  small,  that  the  principal  officials  were  se- 
lected. This  Mexican  and  that  Mexican  would  describe 
to  you  his  old  family  estates,  not  one  rood  of  which  re- 
mained to  him.  You  would  ask  him  how  that  came 
about,  and  elicit  some  tangled  story  back-foremost,  from 
which  you  gathered  that  the  Americans  had  been  greedy 
like  designing  men,  and  the  Mexicans  greedy  like  chil- 

160 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

dren,  but  no  other  certain  fact.  Their  merits  and  their 
faults  contributed  alike  to  the  ruin  of  the  former  land- 
holders. It  is  true  they  were  improvident,  and  easily 
dazzled  with  the  sight  of  ready  money ;  but  they  were 
gentlefolk  besides,  and  that  in  a  way  which  curiously 
unfitted  them  to  combat  Yankee  craft.  Suppose  they 
have  a  paper  to  sign,  they  would  think  it  a  reflection  on 
the  other  party  to  examine  the  terms  with  any  great 
minuteness ;  nay,  suppose  them  to  observe  some  doubt- 
ful clause,  it  is  ten  to  one  they  would  refuse  from  deli- 
cacy to  object  to  it.  I  know  I  am  speaking  within  the 
mark,  for  I  have  seen  such  a  case  occur,  and  the  Mexi- 
can, in  spite  of  the  advice  of  his  lawyer,  has  signed  the 
imperfect  paper  like  a  lamb.  To  have  spoken  in  the 
matter,  he  said,  above  all  to  have  let  the  other  party 
guess  that  he  had  seen  a  lawyer,  would  have  "been 
like  doubting  his  word."  The  scruple  sounds  oddly  to 
one  of  ourselves,  who  have  been  brought  up  to  under- 
stand all  business  as  a  competition  in  fraud,  and  honesty 
itself  to  be  a  virtue  which  regards  the  carrying  out  but 
not  the  creation  of  agreements.  This  single  unworldly 
trait  will  account  for  much  of  that  revolution  of  which 
we  are  speaking.  The  Mexicans  have  the  name  of  being 
great  swindlers,  but  certainly  the  accusation  cuts  both 
ways.  In  a  contest  of  this  sort,  the  entire  booty  would 
scarcely  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  more  scrupu- 
lous race. 

Physically  the  Americans  have  triumphed ;  but  it  is 
not  entirely  seen  how  far  they  have  themselves  been 
morally  conquered.  This  is,  of  course,  but  a  part  of  a 
part  of  an  extraordinary  problem  now  in  the  course  of 
being  solved  in  the  various  States  of  the  American 

i6i 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

Union.  I  am  reminded  of  an  anecdote.  Some  years 
ago,  at  a  great  sale  of  wine,  all  the  odd  lots  were  pur- 
chased by  a  grocer  in  a  small  way  in  the  old  town  of 
Edinburgh.  The  agent  had  the  curiosity  to  visit  him  some 
time  after  and  inquire  what  possible  use  he  could  have 
for  such  material.  He  was  shown,  by  way  of  answer, 
a  huge  vat  where  all  the  liquors,  from  humble  Gladstone 
to  imperial  Tokay,  were  fermenting  together.  ''And 
what, "  he  asked,  ' '  do  you  propose  to  call  this  ?  "  ' '  I'm 
no  very  sure,"  replied  the  grocer,  ''but  I  think  it's  go- 
ing to  turn  out  port."  In  the  older  Eastern  States,  I 
think  we  may  say  that  this  hotch-potch  of  races  is  going 
to  turn  out  English,  or  thereabout.  But  the  problem  is 
indefinitely  varied  in  other  zones.  The  elements  are 
differently  mingled  in  the  south,  in  what  we  may  call 
the  Territorial  belt,  and  in  the  group  of  States  on  the 
Pacific  coast.  Above  all,  in  these  last,  we  may  look  to 
see  some  monstrous  hybrid  —  whether  good  or  evil, 
who  shall  forecast  ?  but  certainly  original  and  all  their 
own.  In  my  little  restaurant  at  Monterey,  we  have  sat 
down  to  table  day  after  day,  a  Frenchman,  two  Portu- 
guese, an  Italian,  a  Mexican,  and  a  Scotchman :  we  had 
for  common  visitors  an  American  from  Illinois,  a  nearly 
pure  blood  Indian  woman,  and  a  naturalised  Chinese; 
and  from  time  to  time  a  Switzer  and  a  German  came 
down  from  country  ranches  for  the  night.  No  wonder 
that  the  Pacific  coast  is  a  foreign  land  to  visitors  from 
the  Eastern  States,  for  each  race  contributes  something 
of  its  own.  Even  the  despised  Chinese  have  taught  the 
youth  of  California,  none  indeed  of  their  virtues,  but  the 
debasing  use  of  opium.  And  chief  among  these  influ- 
ences is  that  of  the  Mexicans. 

162 


THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

The  Mexicans  although  in  the  State  are  out  of  it. 
They  still  preserve  a  sort  of  international  independence, 
and  keep  their  affairs  snug  to  themselves.  Only  four  or 
five  years  ago  Vasquez,  the  bandit,  his  troops  being  dis- 
persed and  the  hunt  too  hot  for  him  in  other  parts  of 
California,  returned  to  his  native  Monterey,  and  was  seen 
publicly  in  her  streets  and  saloons,  fearing  no  man.  The 
year  that  I  was  there  there  occurred  two  reputed  mur- 
ders. As  the  Montereyans  are  exceptionally  vile  speak- 
ers of  each  other  and  of  every  one  behind  his  back,  it  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  judge  how  much  truth  there  may 
have  been  in  these  reports ;  but  in  the  one  case  every 
one  believed,  and  in  the  other  some  suspected,  that  there 
had  been  foul  play;  and  nobody  dreamed  for  an  instant 
of  taking  the  authorities  into  their  counsel.  Now  this 
is,  of  course,  characteristic  enough  of  the  Mexicans ;  but 
it  is  a  noteworthy  feature  that  all  the  Americans  in  Mon- 
terey acquiesced  without  a  word  in  this  inaction.  Even 
when  I  spoke  to  them  upon  the  subject,  they  seemed 
not  to  understand  my  surprise ;  they  had  forgotten  the 
traditions  of  their  own  race  and  upbringing,  and  become, 
in  a  word,  wholly  Mexicanised. 

Again,  the  Mexicans,  having  no  ready  money  to  speak 
of,  rely  almost  entirely  in  their  business  transactions 
upon  each  other's  worthless  paper.  Pedro  the  penni- 
less pays  you  with  an  I  O  U  from  the  equally  penniless 
Miguel.  It  is  a  sort  of  local  currency  by  courtesy.  Credit 
in  these  parts  has  passed  into  a  superstition.  I  have 
seen  a  strong,  violent  man  struggling  for  months  to  re- 
cover a  debt,  and  getting  nothing  but  an  exchange  of 
waste  paper.  The  very  storekeepers  are  averse  to  ask- 
ing for  cash  payments,  and  are  more  surprised  than 

163 


THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

pleased  when  they  are  offered.  They  fear  there  must 
be  something  under  it,  and  that  you  mean  to  withdraw 
your  custom  from  them.  I  have  seen  the  enterprising 
chemist  and  stationer  begging  me  with  fervour  to  let 
my  account  run  on,  although  I  had  my  purse  open  in 
my  hand;  and  partly  from  the  commonness  of  the  case, 
partly  from  some  remains  of  that  generous  old  Mexican 
tradition  which  made  all  men  welcome  to  their  tables,  a 
person  may  be  notoriously  both  unwilling  and  unable  to 
pay,  and  still  find  credit  for  the  necessaries  of  life  in  the 
stores  of  Monterey.  Now  this  villainous  habit  of  living 
upon  * '  tick  "  has  grown  into  Californian  nature.  I  do  not 
mean  that  the  American  and  European  storekeepers  of 
Monterey  are  as  lax  as  Mexicans ;  I  mean  that  American 
farmers  in  many  parts  of  the  State  expect  unlimited  credit, 
and  profit  by  it  in  the  meanwhile,  without  a  thought 
for  consequences.  Jew  storekeepers  have  already 
learned  the  advantage  to  be  gained  from  this ;  they  lead 
on  the  farmer  into  irretrievable  indebtedness,  and  keep 
him  ever  after  as  their  bond-slave  hopelessly  grinding 
in  the  mill.  So  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  its  re- 
venges, and  except  that  the  Jew  knows  better  than  to 
foreclose,  you  may  see  Americans  bound  in  the  same 
chains  with  which  they  themselves  had  formerly  bound 
the  Mexican.  It  seems  as  if  certain  sorts  of  follies,  like 
certain  sorts  of  grain,  were  natural  to  the  soil  rather  than 
to  the  race  that  holds  and  tills  it  for  the  moment. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  the  Americans  rule  in 
Monterey  County.  The  new  county  seat,  Salinas  City, 
in  the  bald,  corn-bearing  plain  under  the  Gabelano  Peak, 
is  a  town  of  a  purely  American  character.  The  land  is 
held,  for  the  most  part,  in  those  enormous  tracts  which 

164 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

are  another  legacy  of  Mexican  days,  and  form  the  present 
chief  danger  and  disgrace  of  California ;  and  the  holders 
are  mostly  of  American  or  British  birth.  We  have  here 
in  England  no  idea  of  the  troubles  and  inconveniences 
which  flow  from  the  existence  of  these  large  landholders 
—  land-thieves,  land-sharks,  or  land-grabbers,  they  are 
more  commonly  and  plainly  called.  Thus  the  town- 
lands  of  Monterey  are  all  in  the  hands  of  a  single  man. 
How  they  came  there  is  an  obscure,  vexatious  question, 
and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  the  man  is  hated  with  a  great 
hatred.  His  life  has  been  repeatedly  in  danger.  Not 
very  long  ago,  I  was  told,  the  stage  was  stopped  and 
examined  three  evenings  in  succession  by  disguised 
horsemen  thirsting  for  his  blood.  A  certain  house  on 
the  Salinas  road,  they  say,  he  always  passes  in  his  buggy 
at  full  speed,  for  the  squatter  sent  him  warning  long 
ago.  But  a  year  since  he  was  publicly  pointed  out  for 
death  by  no  less  a  man  than  Mr.  Dennis  Kearney. 
Kearney  is  a  man  too  well  known  in  California,  but  a 
word  of  explanation  is  required  for  English  readers. 
Originally  an  Irish  drayman,  he  rose,  by  his  command 
of  bad  language,  to  almost  dictatorial  authority  in  the 
State;  throned  it  there  for  six  months  or  so,  his  mouth 
full  of  oaths,  gallowses,  and  conflagrations ;  was  first 
snuffed  out  last  winter  by  Mr.  Coleman,  backed  by  his 
San  Francisco  Vigilantes  and  three  gatling  guns;  com- 
pleted his  own  ruin  by  throwing  in  his  lot  with  the 
grotesque  Greenbacker  party ;  and  had  at  last  to  be  res- 
cued by  his  old  enemies,  the  police,  out  of  the  hands  of 
his  rebellious  followers.  It  was  while  he  was  at  the 
top  of  his  fortune  that  Kearney  visited  Monterey  with 
his  battle-cry  against  Chinese  labour,  the  railroad  mo- 

165 


THE  OLD   PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

nopolists,  and  the  land-thieves;  and  his  one  articulate 
counsel  to  the  Montereyans  was  to  "hang  David  Jacks." 
Had  the  town  been  American,  in  my  private  opinion, 
this  would  have  been  done  years  ago.  Land  is  a  sub- 
ject on  which  there  is  no  jesting  in  the  West,  and  1  have 
seen  my  friend  the  lawyer  drive  out  of  Monterey  to  ad- 
just a  competition  of  titles  with  the  face  of  a  captain 
going  into  battle  and  his  Smith-and- Wesson  convenient 
to  his  hand. 

On  the  ranche  of  another  of  these  landholders  you 
may  find  our  old  friend,  the  truck  system,  in  full  opera- 
tion. Men  live  there,  year  in  year  out,  to  cut  timber  for 
a  nominal  wage,  which  is  all  consumed  in  supplies.  The 
longer  they  remain  in  this  desirable  service  the  deeper 
they  will  fall  in  debt  —  a  burlesque  injustice  in  a  new 
country,  where  labour  should  be  precious,  and  one  of 
those  typical  instances  which  explains  the  prevailing 
discontent  and  the  success  of  the  demagogue  Kearney. 

In  a  comparison  between  what  was  and  what  is  in 
California,  the  praisers  of  times  past  will  fix  upon  the 
Indians  of  Carmel.  The  valley  drained  by  the  river  so 
named  is  a  true  Californian  valley,  bare,  dotted  with  cha- 
parral, overlooked  by  quaint,  unfinished  hills.  The 
Carmel  runs  by  many  pleasant  farms,  a  clear  and  shal- 
low river,  loved  by  wading  kine;  and  at  last,  as  it  is 
falling  towards  a  quicksand  and  the  great  Pacific,  passes 
a  ruined  mission  on  a  hill.  From  the  mission  church 
the  eye  embraces  a  great  field  of  ocean,  and  the  ear  is 
filled  with  a  continuous  sound  of  distant  breakers  on 
the  shore.  But  the  day  of  the  Jesuit  has  gone  by,  the 
day  of  the  Yankee  has  succeeded,  and  there  is  no  one 
left  to  care  for  the  converted  savage.     The  church  is 

1 66 


THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

roofless  and  ruinous,  sea-breezes  and  sea-fogs,  and  the 
alternation  of  the  rain  and  sunshine,  daily  widening 
the  breaches  and  casting  the  crockets  from  the  wall. 
As  an  antiquity  in  this  new  land,  a  quaint  specimen  of 
missionary  architecture,  and  a  memorial  of  good  deeds, 
it  had  a  triple  claim  to  preservation  from  all  thinking 
people;  but  neglect  and  abuse  have  been  its  portion. 
There  is  no  sign  of  American  interference,  save  where 
a  headboard  has  been  torn  from  a  grave  to  be  a  mark 
for  pistol  bullets.  So  it  is  with  the  Indians  for  whom  it 
was  erected.  Their  lands,  I  was  told,  are  being  yearly  en- 
croached upon  by  the  neighbouring  American  proprie- 
tor, and  with  that  exception  no  man  troubles  his  head 
for  the  Indians  of  Carmel.  Only  one  day  in  the  year, 
the  day  before  our  Guy  Fawkes,  the  padre  drives  over 
the  hill  from  Monterey;  the  little  sacristy,  which  is  the 
only  covered  portion  of  the  church,  is  filled  with  seats 
and  decorated  for  the  service ;  the  Indians  troop  together, 
their  bright  dresses  contrasting  with  their  dark  and  mel- 
ancholy faces ;  and  there,  among  a  crowd  of  somewhat 
unsympathetic  holiday-makers,  you  may  hear  God 
served  with  perhaps  more  touching  circumstances  than 
in  any  other  temple  under  heaven.  An  Indian,  stone- 
blind  and  about  eighty  years  of  age,  conducts  the  sing- 
ing; other  Indians  compose  the  choir;  yet  they  have 
the  Gregorian  music  at  their  fmger  ends,  and  pronounce 
the  Latin  so  correctly  that  I  could  follow  the  meaning  as 
they  sang.  The  pronunciation  was  odd  and  nasal,  the 
singing  hurried  and  staccato.  'Mn  saecula  saeculo-ho- 
horum,"  they  went,  with  a  vigorous  aspirate  to  every 
additional  syllable.  I  have  never  seen  faces  more  viv- 
idly lit  up  with  joy  than  the  faces  of  these  Indian  sing- 

167 


THE  OLD  PACIFIC  CAPITAL 

ers.  It  was  to  them  not  only  the  worship  of  God,  nor 
an  act  by  which  they  recalled  and  commemorated  bet- 
ter days,  but  was  besides  an  exercise  of  culture,  where 
all  they  knew  of  art  and  letters  was  united  and  ex- 
pressed. And  it  made  a  man's  heart  sorry  for  the  good 
fathers  of  yore  who  had  taught  them  to  dig  and  to  reap, 
to  read  and  to  sing,  who  had  given  them  European 
mass-books  which  they  still  preserve  and  study  in  their 
cottages,  and  who  had  now  passed  away  from  all  au- 
thority and  influence  in  that  land  —  to  be  succeeded  by 
greedy  land-thieves  and  sacrilegious  pistol-shots.  So 
ugly  a  thing  may  our  Anglo-Saxon  Protestantism  appear 
beside  the  doings  of  the  Society  of  Jesus. 

But  revolution  in  this  world  succeeds  to  revolution. 
All  that  I  say  in  this  paper  is  in  a  paulo-past  tense.  The 
Monterey  of  last  year  exists  no  longer.  A  huge  hotel 
has  sprung  up  in  the  desert  by  the  railway.  Three  sets 
of  diners  sit  down  successively  to  table.  Invaluable 
toilettes  figure  along  the  beach  and  between  the  live 
oaks;  and  Monterey  is  advertised  in  the  newspapers, 
and  posted  in  the  waiting-rooms  at  railway  stations,  as 
a  resort  for  wealth  and  fashion.  Alas  for  the  little  town ! 
it  is  not  strong  enough  to  resist  the  influence  of  the 
flaunting  caravanserai,  and  the  poor,  quaint,  penniless 
native  gentlemen  of  Monterey  must  perish,  like  a  lower 
race,  before  the  millionaire  vulgarians  of  the  Big  Bo- 
nanza. 

[1880.] 


168 


III.    FONTAINEBLEAU 

VILLAGE   COMMUNITIES   OF   PAINTERS 


The  charm  of  Fontainebleau  is  a  thing  apart.  It  is  a 
place  that  people  love  even  more  than  they  admire. 
The  vigorous  forest  air,  the  silence,  the  majestic  avenues 
of  highway,  the  wilderness  of  tumbled  boulders,  the 
great  age  and  dignity  of  certain  groves  —  these  are  but 
ingredients,  they  are  not  the  secret  of  the  philtre.  The 
place  is  sanative;  the  air,  the  light,  the  perfumes,  and 
the  shapes  of  things  concord  in  happy  harmony.  The 
artist  may  be  idle  and  not  fear  the  **  blues."  He  may 
dally  with  his  life.  Mirth,  lyric  mirth,  and  a  vivacious 
classical  contentment  are  of  the  very  essence  of  the  bet- 
ter kind  of  art;  and  these,  in  that  most  smiling  forest, 
he  has  the  chance  to  learn  or  to  remember.  Even  on 
the  plain  of  Biere,  where  the  Angelus  of  Millet  still  tolls 
upon  the  ear  of  fancy,  a  larger  air,  a  higher  heaven, 
something  ancient  and  healthy  in  the  face  of  nature, 
purify  the  mind  alike  from  dulness  and  hysteria.  There 
is  no  place  where  the  young  are  more  gladly  con- 
scious of  their  youth,  or  the  old  better  contented  with 
their  age. 

The  fact  of  its  great  and  special  beauty  further  recom- 
mends this  country  to  the  artist.  The  field  was  chosen 
by  men  in  whose  blood  there  still  raced  some  of  the 

169 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

gleeful  or  solemn  exultation  of  great  art — Millet  who 
loved  dignity  like  Michelangelo,  Rousseau  whose  mod- 
ern brush  was  dipped  in  the  glamour  of  the  ancients.  It 
was  chosen  before  the  day  of  that  strange  turn  in  the 
history  of  art,  of  which  we  now  perceive  the  culmina- 
tion in  impressionistic  tales  and  pictures  —  that  volun- 
tary aversion  of  the  eye  from  all  speciously  strong  and 
beautiful  effects  —  that  disinterested  love  of  dulness 
which  has  set  so  many  Peter  Bells  to  paint  the  river-side 
primrose.  It  was  then  chosen  for  its  proximity  to  Paris. 
And  for  the  same  cause,  and  by  the  force  of  tradition,  the 
painter  of  to-day  continues  to  inhabit  and  to  paint  it. 
There  is  in  France  scenery  incomparable  for  romance 
and  harmony.  Provence,  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhone 
from  Vienne  to  Tarascon,  are  one  succession  of  master- 
pieces waiting  for  the  brush.  The  beauty  is  not  merely 
beauty ;  it  tells,  besides,  a  tale  to  the  imagination,  and 
surprises  while  it  charms.  Here  you  shall  see  castel- 
lated towns  that  would  befit  the  scenery  of  dream- 
land; streets  that  glow  with  colour  like  cathedral 
windows ;  hills  of  the  most  exquisite  proportions ;  flow- 
ers of  every  precious  colour,  growing  thick  like  grass. 
All  these,  by  the  grace  of  railway  travel,  are  brought  to 
the  very  door  of  the  modern  painter;  yet  he  does  not 
seek  them ;  he  remains  faithful  to  Fontainebleau,  to  the 
eternal  bridge  of  Gretz,  to  the  watering-pot  cascade  in 
Cernay  valley.  Even  Fontainebleau  was  chosen  for 
him;  even  in  Fontainebleau  he  shrinks  from  what  is 
sharply  charactered.  But  one  thing,  at  least,  is  certain, 
whatever  he  may  choose  to  paint  and  in  whatever  man- 
ner, it  is  good  for  the  artist  to  dwell  among  graceful 
shapes.     Fontainebleau,  if  it  be  but  quiet  scenery,   is 

170 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

classically  graceful ;  and  though  the  student  may  look 
for  different  qualities,  this  quality,  silently  present,  will 
educate  his  hand  and  eye. 

*  But,  before  all  its  other  advantages  —  charm,  loveli- 
ness, or  proximity  to  Paris  —  comes  the  great  fact  that 
it  is  already  colonised.  The  institution  of  a  painters' 
colony  is  a  work  of  time  and  tact.  The  population 
must  be  conquered.  The  inn-keeper  has  to  be  taught, 
and  he  soon  learns,  the  lesson  of  unlimited  credit;  he 
must  be  taught  to  welcome  as  a  favoured  guest  a  young 
gentleman  in  a  very  greasy  coat,  and  with  little  baggage 
beyond  a  box  of  colours  and  a  canvas;  and  he  must 
learn  to  preserve  his  faith  in  customers  who  will  eat 
heartily  and  drink  of  the  best,  borrow  money  to  buy 
tobacco,  and  perhaps  not  pay  a  stiver  for  a  year.  A 
colour  merchant  has  next  to  be  attracted.  A  certain 
vogue  must  be  given  to  the  place,  lest  the  painter,  most 
gregarious  of  animals,  should  find  himself  alone.  And 
no  sooner  are  these  first  difficulties  overcome,  than  fresh 
perils  spring  up  upon  the  other  side ;  and  the  bourgeois 
and  the  tourist  are  knocking  at  the  gate.  This  is  the 
crucial  moment  for  the  colony.  If  these  intruders  gain 
a  footing,  they  not  only  banish  freedom  and  amenity ; 
pretty  soon,  by  means  of  their  long  purses,  they  will 
have  undone  the  education  of  the  innkeeper;  prices  will 
rise  and  credit  shorten ;  and  the  poor  painter  must  fare 
farther  on  and  find  another  hamlet.  '*Not  here,  O 
Apollo ! "  will  become  his  song.  Thus  Trouville  and, 
the  other  day,  St.  Raphael  were  lost  to  the  arts.  Curi- 
ous and  not  always  edifying  are  the  shifts  that  the  French 
student  uses  to  defend  his  lair;  like  the  cuttlefish,  he 
must  sometimes  blacken  the  waters  of  his  chosen  pool ; 

171 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

but  at  such  a  time  and  for  so  practical  a  purpose  Mrs. 
Grundy  must  allow  him  licence.  Where  his  own  purse 
and  credit  are  not  threatened,  he  will  do  the  honours  of 
his  village  generously.  Any  artist  is  made  welcome, 
through  whatever  medium  he  may  seek  expression; 
science  is  respected ;  even  the  idler,  if  he  prove,  as  he 
so  rarely  does,  a  gentleman,  will  soon  begin  to  find 
himself  at  home.  And  when  that  essentially  modern 
creature,  the  English  or  American  girl-student,  began 
to  walk  calmly  into  his  favourite  inns  as  if  into  a  draw- 
ing-room at  home,  the  French  painter  owned  himself 
defenceless;  he  submitted  or  he  fled.  His  French  re- 
spectability, quite  as  precise  as  ours,  though  covering 
different  provinces  of  life,  recoiled  aghast  before  the  in- 
novation. But  the  girls  were  painters ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done ;  and  Barbizon,  when  I  last  saw  it  and 
for  the  time  at  least,  was  practically  ceded  to  the  fair 
invader.  Paterfamilias,  on  the  other  hand,  the  common 
tourist,  the  holiday  shopman,  and  the  cheap  young  gen- 
tleman upon  the  spree,  he  hounded  from  his  villages 
with  every  circumstance  of  contumely. 

This  purely  artistic  society  is  excellent  for  the  young 
artist.  The  lads  are  mostly  fools ;  they  hold  the  latest 
orthodoxy  in  its  crudeness;  they  are  at  that  stage  of 
education,  for  the  most  part,  when  a  man  is  too  much 
occupied  with  style  to  be  aware  of  the  necessity  for  any 
matter;  and  this,  above  all  for  the  Englishman,  is  ex- 
cellent. To  work  grossly  at  the  trade,  to  forget  senti- 
ment, to  think  of  his  material  and  nothing  else,  is,  for 
awhile  at  least,  the  king's  highway  of  progress.  Here, 
in  England,  too  many  painters  and  writers  dwell  dis- 
persed, unshielded,   among  the  intelligent  bourgeois. 

172 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

These,  when  they  are  not  merely  indifferent,  prate  to 
him  about  the  lofty  aims  and  moral  influence  of  art. 
And  this  is  the  lad's  ruin.  For  art  is,  first  of  all  and  last 
of  all,  a  trade.  The  love  of  words  and  not  a  desire  to 
publish  new  discoveries,  the  love  of  form  and  not  a 
novel  reading  of  historical  events,  mark  the  vocation  of 
the  writer  and  the  painter.  The  arabesque,  properly 
speaking,  and  even  in  literature,  is  the  first  fancy  of  the 
artist ;  he  first  plays  with  his  material  as  a  child  plays 
with  a  kaleidoscope;  and  he  is  already  in  a  second  stage 
when  he  begins  to  use  his  pretty  counters  for  the  end 
of  representation.  In  that,  he  must  pause  long  and  toil 
faithfully ;  that  is  his  apprenticeship ;  and  it  is  only  the 
few  who  will  really  grow  beyond  it,  and  go  forward, 
fully  equipped,  to  do  the  business  of  real  art  —  to  give 
life  to  abstractions  and  significance  and  charm  to  facts. 
In  the  meanwhile,  let  him  dwell  much  among  his  fellow- 
craftsmen.  They  alone  can  take  a  serious  interest  in  the 
childish  tasks  and  pitiful  successes  of  these  years.  They 
alone  can  behold  with  equanimity  this  fingering  of  the 
dumb  keyboard,  this  polishing  of  empty  sentences, 
this  dull  and  literal  painting  of  dull  and  insignificant 
subjects.  Outsiders  will  spur  him  on.  They  will  say, 
**Why  do  you  not  write  a  great  book?  paint  a  great 
picture?"  If  his  guardian  angel  fail  him,  they  may 
even  persuade  him  to  the  attempt,  and,  ten  to  one,  his 
hand  is  coarsened  and  his  style  falsified  for  life. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  warning.  The  life  of  the 
apprentice  to  any  art  is  both  unstrained  and  pleasing;  it 
is  strewn  with  small  successes  in  the  midst  of  a  career 
of  failure,  patiently  supported ;  the  heaviest  scholar  is 
conscious  of  a  certain  progress ;  and  if  he  come  not  ap- 

>73 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

preciably  nearer  to  the  art  of  Shakespeare,  grows  letter- 
perfect  in  the  domain  of  A-B,  ab.  But  the  time  comes 
when  a  man  should  cease  prelusory  gymnastic,  stand 
up,  put  a  violence  upon  his  will,  and  for  better  or  worse, 
begin  the  business  of  creation.  This  evil  day  there  is 
a  tendency  continually  to  postpone:  above  all  with 
painters.  They  have  made  so  many  studies  that  it  has 
become  a  habit;  they  make  more,  the  walls  of  exhibi- 
tions blush  with  them ;  and  death  finds  these  aged  stu- 
dents still  busy  with  their  horn-book.  This  class  of 
man  finds  a  congenial  home  in  artist  villages;  in  the 
slang  of  the  English  colony  at  Barbizon  we  used  to  call 
them  ''Snoozers."  Continual  returns  to  the  city,  the 
society  of  men  farther  advanced,  the  study  of  great 
works,  a  sense  of  humour  or,  if  such  a  thing  is  to  be 
had,  a  little  religion  or  philosophy,  are  the  means  of 
treatment.  It  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  curing 
the  malady  after  it  has  been  caught ;  for  to  catch  it  is  the 
very  thing  for  which  you  seek  that  dream-land  of  the 
painters'  village.  ''Snoozing"  is  a  part  of  the  artistic 
education ;  and  the  rudiments  must  be  learned  stupidly, 
all  else  being  forgotten,  as  if  they  were  an  object  in 
themselves. 

Lastly,  there  is  something,  or  there  seems  to  be  some- 
thing, in  the  very  air  of  France  that  communicates  the 
love  of  style.  Precision,  clarity,  the  cleanly  and  crafty 
employment  of  material,  a  grace  in  the  handling,  apart 
from  any  value  in  the  thought,  seem  to  be  acquired  by 
the  mere  residence ;  or  if  not  acquired,  become  at  least 
the  more  appreciated.  The  air  of  Paris  is  alive  with  this 
technical  inspiration.  And  to  leave  that  airy  city  and 
awake  next  day  upon  the  borders  of  the  forest  is  but  to 

»74 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

change  externals.  The  same  spirit  of  dexterity  and 
finish  breathes  from  the  long  alleys  and  the  lofty  groves, 
from  the  wildernesses  that  are  still  pretty  in  their  con- 
fusion, and  the  great  plain  that  contrives  to  be  decora- 
tive in  its  emptiness. 


In  spite  of  its  really  considerable  extent,  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau  is  hardly  anywhere  tedious.  I  know  the 
whole  western  side  of  it  with  what,  I  suppose,  I  may 
call  thoroughness ;  well  enough  at  least  to  testify  that 
there  is  no  square  mile  without  some  special  character 
and  charm.  Such  quarters,  for  instance,  as  the  Long 
Rocher,  the  Bas-Breau,  and  the  Reine  Blanche,  might 
be  a  hundred  miles  apart;  they  have  scarce  a  point  in 
common  beyond  the  silence  of  the  birds.  The  two  last 
are  really  conterminous ;  and  in  both  are  tall  and  ancient 
trees  that  have  outlived  a  thousand  political  vicissitudes. 
But  in  the  one  the  great  oaks  prosper  placidly  upon  an 
even  floor;  they  beshadow  a  great  field;  and  the  air  and 
the  light  are  very  free  below  their  stretching  boughs.  In 
the  other  the  trees  find  difficult  footing;  castles  of  white 
rock  lie  tumbled  one  upon  another,  the  foot  slips,  the 
crooked  viper  slumbers,  the  moss  clings  in  the  crevice; 
and  above  it  all  the  great  beech  goes  spiring  and  casting 
forth  her  arms,  and,  with  a  grace  beyond  church  archi- 
tecture, canopies  this  rugged  chaos.  Meanwhile,  divid- 
ing the  two  cantons,  the  broad  white  causeway  of  the 
Paris  road  runs  in  an  avenue :  a  road  conceived  for  pa- 
geantry and  for  triumphal  marches,  an  avenue  for  an 
army ;  but,  its  days  of  glory  over,  it  now  lies  grilling  in 
the  sun  between  cool  groves,  and  only  at  intervals  tha 

175 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

vehicle  of  the  cruising  tourist  is  seen  far  away  and  faintly 
audible  along  its  ample  sweep.  A  little  upon  one  side, 
and  you  find  a  district  of  sand  and  birch  and  boulder; 
a  little  upon  the  other  lies  the  valley  of  Apremont,  all 
juniper  and  heather;  and  close  beyond  that  you  may 
walk  into  a  zone  of  pine  trees.  So  artfully  are  the  in- 
gredients mingled.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that,  in 
all  this  part,  you  come  continually  forth  upon  a  hill-top, 
and  behold  the  plain,  northward  and  westward,  like  an 
unrefulgent  sea ;  nor  that  all  day  long  the  shadows  keep 
changing;  and  at  last,  to  the  red  fires  of  sunset,  night 
succeeds,  and  with  the  night  a  new  forest,  full  of  whisper, 
gloom,  and  fragrance.  There  are  few  things  more  reno- 
vating than  to  leave  Paris,  the  lamplit  arches  of  the  Carrou- 
sel, and  the  long  alignment  of  the  glittering  streets,  and  to 
bathe  the  senses  in  this  fragrant  darkness  of  the  wood. 

In  this  continual  variety  the  mind  is  kept  vividly 
alive.  It  is  a  changeful  place  to  paint,  a  stirring  place 
to  live  in.  As  fast  as  your  foot  carries  you,  you  pass 
from  scene  to  scene,  each  vigorously  painted  in  the 
colours  of  the  sun,  each  endeared  by  that  hereditary 
spell  of  forests  on  the  mind  of  man  who  still  remembers 
and  salutes  the  ancient  refuge  of  his  race. 

And  yet  the  forest  has  been  civilised  throughout. 
The  most  savage  corners  bear  a  name,  and  have  been 
cherished  like  antiquities;  in  the  most  remote.  Nature 
has  prepared  and  balanced  her  effects  as  if  with  con- 
scious art ;  and  man,  with  his  guiding  arrows  of  blue 
paint,  has  countersigned  the  picture.  After  your  far- 
thest wandering,  you  are  never  surprised  to  come  forth 
upon  the  vast  avenue  of  highway,  to  strike  the  centre 
point  of  branching  alleys,  or  to  find  the  aqueduct  trail- 

176 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

ing,  thousand-footed,  through  the  brush.  It  is  not  a 
wilderness ;  it  is  rather  a  preserve.  And,  fitly  enough, 
the  centre  of  the  maze  is  not  a  hermit's  cavern.  In  the 
midst,  a  little  mirthful  town  lies  sunlit,  humming  with 
the  business  of  pleasure ;  and  the  palace,  breathing  dis- 
tinction and  peopled  by  historic  names,  stands  smoke- 
less among  gardens. 

Perhaps  the  last  attempt  at  savage  life  was  that  of  the 
harmless  humbug  who  called  himself  the  hermit.  In  a 
great  tree,  close  by  the  high-road,  he  had  built  himself 
a  little  cabin  after  the  manner  of  the  Swiss  Family  Rob- 
inson; thither  he  mounted  at  night,  by  the  romantic 
aid  of  a  rope  ladder;  and  if  dirt  be  any  proof  of  sin- 
cerity, the  man  was  savage  as  a  Sioux.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  his  acquaintance;  he  appeared  grossly  stu- 
pid, not  in  his  perfect  wits,  and  interested  in  nothing 
but  small  change ;  for  that  he  had  a  great  avidity.  In 
the  course  of  time  he  proved  to  be  a  chicken-stealer, 
and  vanished  from  his  perch;  and  perhaps  from  the 
first  he  was  no  true  votary  of  forest  freedom,  but  an 
ingenious,  theatrically-minded  beggar,  and  his  cabin  in 
the  tree  was  only  stock-in-trade  to  beg  withal.  The 
choice  of  his  position  would  seem  to  indicate  so  much ; 
for  if  in  the  forest  there  are  no  places  still  to  be  discov- 
ered, there  are  many  that  have  been  forgotten,  and  that 
lie  unvisited.  There,  to  be  sure,  are  the  blue  arrows 
waiting  to  reconduct  you,  now  blazed  upon  a  tree, 
now  posted  in  the  corner  of  a  rock.  But  your  security 
from  interruption  is  complete ;  you  might  camp  for 
weeks,  if  there  were  only  water,  and  not  a  soul  sus- 
pect your  presence;  and  if  I  may  suppose  the  reader  to 
have  committed  some  great  crime  and  come  to  me  for 

177 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

aid,  I  think  I  could  still  find  my  way  to  a  small  cavern, 
fitted  with  a  hearth  and  chimney,  where  he  might  lie 
perfectly  concealed.  A  confederate  landscape-painter 
might  daily  supply  him  with  food ;  for  water,  he  would 
have  to  make  a  nightly  tramp  as  far  as  to  the  nearest 
pond ;  and  at  last,  when  the  hue  and  cry  began  to  blow 
over,  he  might  get  gently  on  the  train  at  some  side  sta- 
tion, work  round  by  a  series  of  junctions,  and  be  quietly 
captured  at  the  frontier. 

Thus  Fontainebleau,  although  it  is  truly  but  a  plea- 
sure-ground, and  although,  in  favourable  weather,  and 
in  the  more  celebrated  quarters,  it  literally  buzzes  with 
the  tourist,  yet  has  some  of  the  immunities  and  offers 
some  of  the  repose  of  natural  forests.  And  the  soli- 
tary, although  he  must  return  at  night  to  his  frequented 
inn,  may  yet  pass  the  day  with  his  own  thoughts  in 
the  companionable  silence  of  the  trees.  The  demands 
of  the  imagination  vary;  some  can  be  alone  in  a  back 
garden  looked  upon  by  windows;  others,  like  the  os- 
trich, are  content  with  a  solitude  that  meets  the  eye; 
and  others,  again,  expand  in  fancy  to  the  very  borders 
of  their  desert,  and  are  irritably  conscious  of  a  hunter's 
camp  in  an  adjacent  county.  To  these  last,  of  course, 
Fontainebleau  will  seem  but  an  extended  tea-garden :  a 
Rosherville  on  a  by-day.  But  to  the  plain  man  it  offers 
solitude :  an  excellent  thing  in  itself,  and  a  good  whet 
for  company. 

Ill 

I  was  for  some  time  a  consistent  Barbizonian ;  et  ego  in 
Arcadia  vixi,  it  was  a  pleasant  season ;  and  that  noise- 
less hamlet  lying  close  among  the  borders  of  the  wood 

178 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

is  for  me,  as  for  so  many  others,  a  green  spot  in  mem- 
ory. The  great  Millet  was  just  dead,  the  green  shutters 
of  his  modest  house  were  closed;  his  daughters  were  in 
mourning.  The  date  of  my  first  visit  was  thus  an  epoch 
in  the  history  of  art:  in  a  lesser  way,  it  was  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  The  Petit  Ctnacle 
was  dead  and  buried ;  Murger  and  his  crew  of  sponging 
vagabonds  were  all  at  rest  from  their  expedients ;  the 
tradition  of  their  real  life  was  nearly  lost;  and  the  petri- 
fied legend  of  the  yie  de  Boheme  had  become  a  sort  of 
gospel,  and  still  gave  the  cue  to  zealous  imitators.  But 
if  the  book  be  written  in  rose-water,  the  imitation  was 
still  farther  expurgated ;  honesty  was  the  rule ;  the  inn- 
keepers gave,  as  I  have  said,  almost  unlimited  credit; 
they  suffered  the  seediest  painter  to  depart,  to  take  all 
his  belongings,  and  to  leave  his  bill  unpaid;  and  if  they 
sometimes  lost,  it  was  by  English  and  Americans  alone. 
At  the  same  time,  the  great  influx  of  Anglo-Saxons  had 
begun  to  affect  the  life  of  the  studious.  There  had  been 
disputes ;  and,  in  one  instance  at  least,  the  English  and 
the  Americans  had  made  common  cause  to  prevent  a 
cruel  pleasantry.  It  would  be  well  if  nations  and  races 
could  communicate  their  qualities ;  but  in  practice  when 
they  look  upon  each  other,  they  have  an  eye  to  nothing 
but  defects.  The  Anglo-Saxon  is  essentially  dishonest; 
the  French  is  devoid  by  nature  of  the  principle  that  we 
call  ''Fair  Play."  The  Frenchman  marvelled  at  the 
scruples  of  his  guest,  and,  when  that  defender  of  in- 
nocence retired  over-seas  and  left  his  bills  unpaid,  he 
marvelled  once  again;  the  good  and  evil  were,  in  his 
eyes,  part  and  parcel  of  the  same  eccentricity ;  a  shrug 
expressed  his  judgment  upon  both. 

179 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

At  Barbizon  there  was  no  master,  no  pontiff  in  the 
arts.  Palizzi  bore  rule  at  Gretz  —  urbane,  superior 
rule —  his  memory  rich  in  anecdotes  of  the  great  men  of 
yore,  his  mind  fertile  in  theories;  sceptical,  composed, 
and  venerable  to  the  eye ;  and  yet  beneath  these  out- 
works, all  twittering  with  Italian  superstition,  his  eye 
scouting  for  omens,  and  the  whole  fabric  of  his  man- 
ners giving  way  on  the  appearance  of  a  hunchback. 
Cernay  had  Pelouse,  the  admirable,  placid  Pelouse,  smil- 
ingly critical  of  youth,  who,  when  a  full-blown  commer- 
cial traveller,  suddenly  threw  down  his  samples,  bought 
a  colour-box,  and  became  the  master  whom  we  have  all 
admired.  Marlotte,  for  a  central  figure,  boasted  Olivier 
de  Penne.  Only  Barbizon,  since  the  death  of  Millet, 
was  a  headless  commonwealth.  Even  its  secondary 
lights,  and  those  who  in  my  day  made  the  stranger 
welcome,  have  since  deserted  it.  The  good  Lachevre 
has  departed,  carrying  his  household  gods;  and  long 
before  that  Gaston  Lafenestre  was  taken  from  our  midst 
by  an  untimely  death.  He  died  before  he  had  deserved 
success;  it  may  be,  he  would  never  have  deserved  it; 
but  his  kind,  comely,  modest  countenance  still  haunts 
the  memory  of  all  who  knew  him.  Another  —  whom 
I  will  not  name  —  has  moved  farther  on,  pursuing  the 
strange  Odyssey  of  his  decadence.  His  days  of  royal 
favour  had  departed  even  then ;  but  he  still  retained,  in 
his  narrower  life  at  Barbizon,  a  certain  stamp  of  conscious 
importance,  hearty,  friendly,  filling  the  room,  the  occu- 
pant of  several  chairs ;  nor  had  he  yet  ceased  his  losing 
battle,  still  labouring  upon  great  canvases  that  none 
would  buy,  still  waiting  the  return  of  fortune.  But  these 
days  also  were  too  good  to  last;  and>the  former  favourite 

180 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

of  two  sovereigns  fled,  if  I  heard  the  truth,  by  night. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  was  counted  a  great  man, 
and  Millet  but  a  dauber;  behold,  how  the  whirligig  of 
time  brings  in  his  revenges !  To  pity  Millet  is  a  piece  of 
arrogance;  if  life  be  hard  for  such  resolute  and  pious 
spirits,  it  is  harder  still  for  us,  had  we  the  wit  to  under- 
stand it;  but  we  may  pity  his  unhappier  rival,  who,  for 
no  apparent  merit,  was  raised  to  opulence  and  momen- 
tary fame,  and,  through  no  apparent  fault,  was  suffered 
step  by  step  to  sink  again  to  nothing.  No  misfortune 
can  exceed  the  bitterness  of  such  back-foremost  pro- 
gress, even  bravely  supported  as  it  was;  but  to  those 
also  who  were  taken  early  from  the  easel,  a  regret  is  due. 
From  all  the  young  men  of  this  period,  one  stood  out  by 
the  vigour  of  his  promise ;  he  was  in  the  age  of  fermenta- 
tion, enamoured  of  eccentricities.  "  l\  faut  faire  de  la 
peinture  nouvelle,"  was  his  watchword;  but  if  time  and 
experience  had  continued  his  education,  if  he  had  been 
granted  health  to  return  from  these  excursions  to  the 
steady  and  the  central,  I  must  believe  that  the  name  of 
Hills  had  become  famous. 

Siron's  inn,  that  excellent  artists'  barrack,  was  man- 
aged upon  easy  principles.  At  any  hour  of  the  night, 
when  you  returned  from  wandering  in  the  forest,  you 
went  to  the  billiard-room  and  helped  yourself  to  liquors, 
or  descended  to  the  cellar  and  returned  laden  with  beer 
or  wine.  The  Sirons  were  all  locked  in  slumber;  there 
was  none  to  check  your  inroads;  only  at  the  week's 
end  a  computation  was  made,  the  gross  sum  was  di- 
vided, and  a  varying  share  set  down  to  every  lodger's 
name  under  the  rubric :  estrats.  Upon  the  more  long- 
suffering  the  larger  tax  was  levied ;  and  your  bill  length- 

i8i 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

ened  in  a  direct  proportion  to  the  easiness  of  your  dis- 
position. At  any  hour  of  the  morning,  again,  you  could 
get  your  coffee  or  cold  milk,  and  set  forth  into  the  forest. 
The  doves  had  perhaps  wakened  you,  fluttering  into 
your  chamber;  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  inn  you  were 
met  by  the  aroma  of  the  forest.  Close  by  were  the  great 
aisles,  the  mossy  boulders,  the  interminable  field  of 
forest  shadow.  There  you  were  free  to  dream  and 
wander.  And  at  noon,  and  again  at  six  o'clock,  a  good 
meal  awaited  you  on  Siron's  table.  The  whole  of  your 
accommodation,  set  aside  that  varying  item  of  the  estrats, 
cost  you  five  francs  a  day ;  your  bill  was  never  offered 
you  until  you  asked  it ;  and  if  you  were  out  of  luck's 
way,  you  might  depart  for  where  you  pleased  and  leave 
it  pending. 

IV 

Theoretically,  the  house  was  open  to  all  comers ;  prac- 
tically, it  was  a  kind  of  club.  The  guests  protected 
themselves,  and,  in  so  doing,  they  protected  Siron. 
Formal  manners  being  laid  aside,  essential  courtesy  was 
the  more  rigidly  exacted ;  the  new  arrival  had  to  feel 
the  pulse  of  the  society ;  and  a  breach  of  its  undefined 
observances  was  promptly  punished.  A  man  might  be 
as  plain,  as  dull,  as  slovenly,  as  free  of  speech  as  he  de- 
sired ;  but  to  a  touch  of  presumption  or  a  word  of  hec- 
toring these  free  Barbizonians  were  as  sensitive  as  a 
tea-party  of  maiden  ladies.  1  have  seen  people  driven 
forth  from  Barbizon;  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  in 
words  what  they  had  done,  but  they  deserved  their  fate. 
They  had  shown  themselves  unworthy  to  enjoy  these 
corporate  freedoms;  they  had  pushed  themselves;  they 

182 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

had  ''made  their  head;"  they  wanted  tact  to  appreciate 
the  'Tine  shades"  of  Barbizonian  etiquette.  And  once 
they  were  condemned,  the  process  of  extrusion  was 
ruthless  in  its  cruelty;  after  one  evening  with  the  for- 
midable Bodmer,  the  Baily  of  our  commonwealth,  the 
erring  stranger  was  beheld  no  more;  he  rose  exceeding 
early  the  next  day,  and  the  first  coach  conveyed  him 
from  the  scene  of  his  discomfiture.  These  sentences  of 
banishment  were  never,  in  my  knowledge,  delivered 
against  an  artist;  such  would,  I  believe,  have  been  il- 
legal; but  the  odd  and  pleasant  fact  is  this,  that  they 
were  never  needed.  Painters,  sculptors,  writers,  singers, 
I  have  seen  all  of  these  in  Barbizon;  and  some  were 
sulky,  and  some  blatant  and  inane ;  but  one  and  all  en- 
tered at  once  into  the  spirit  of  the  association.  This 
singular  society  is  purely  French,  a  creature  of  French 
virtues,  and  possibly  of  French  defects.  It  cannot  be 
imitated  by  the  English.  The  roughness,  the  impatience, 
the  more  obvious  selfishness,  and  even  the  more  ardent 
friendships  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  speedily  dismember 
such  a  commonwealth.  But  this  random  gathering  of 
young  French  painters,  with  neither  apparatus  nor  pa- 
rade of  government,  yet  kept  the  life  of  the  place  upon 
a  certain  footing,  insensibly  imposed  their  etiquette  upon 
the  docile,  and  by  caustic  speech  enforced  their  edicts 
against  the  unwelcome.  To  think  of  it  is  to  wonder 
the  more  at  the  strange  failure  of  their  race  upon  the 
larger  theatre.  This  inbred  civility  —  to  use  the  word 
in  its  completest  meaning  —  this  natural  and  facile  ad- 
justment of  contending  liberties,  seems  all  that  is  re- 
quired to  make  a  governable  nation  and  a  just  and 
prosperous  country. 

183 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

Our  society,  thus  purged  and  guarded,  was  full  of  high 
spirits,  of  laughter,  and  of  the  initiative  of  youth.  The 
few  elder  men  who  joined  us  were  still  young  at  heart, 
and  took  the  key  from  their  companions.  We  returned 
from  long  stations  in  the  fortifying  air,  our  blood  renewed 
by  the  sunshine,  our  spirits  refreshed  by  the  silence  of 
the  forest ;  the  Babel  of  loud  voices  sounded  good ;  we 
fell  to  eat  and  play  like  the  natural  man ;  and  in  the  high 
inn  chamber,  panelled  with  indifferent  pictures  and  lit 
by  candles  guttering  in  the  night  air,  the  talk  and  laugh- 
ter sounded  far  into  the  night.  It  was  a  good  place  and 
a  good  life  for  any  naturally-minded  youth ;  better  yet  for 
the  student  of  painting,  and  perhaps  best  of  all  for  the 
student  of  letters.  He,  too,  was  saturated  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  style;  he  was  shut  out  from  the  disturbing 
currents  of  the  world,  he  might  forget  that  there  existed 
other  and  more  pressing  interests  than  that  of  art.  But, 
in  such  a  place,  it  was  hardly  possible  to  write ;  he  could 
not  drug  his  conscience,  like  the  painter,  by  the  produc- 
tion of  listless  studies;  he  saw  himself  idle  among  many 
who  were  apparently,  and  some  who  were  really,  em- 
ployed ;  and  what  with  the  impulse  of  increasing  health 
and  the  continual  provocation  of  romantic  scenes,  he 
became  tormented  with  the  desire  to  work.  He  en- 
joyed a  strenuous  idleness  full  of  visions,  hearty  meals, 
long,  sweltering  walks,  mirth  among  companions;  and 
still  floating  like  music  through  his  brain,  foresights  of 
great  works  that  Shakespeare  might  be  proud  to  have 
conceived,  headless  epics,  glorious  torsos  of  dramas, 
and  words  that  were  alive  with  import.  So  in  youth, 
like  Moses  from  the  mountain,  we  have  sights  of  that 
House  Beautiful  of  art  which  we  shall  never  enter.    They 

184 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

are  dreams  and  unsubstantial ;  visions  of  style  that  re- 
pose  upon  no  base  of  human  meaning;  the  last  heart- 
throbs of  that  excited  amateur  who  has  to  die  in  all  of 
us  before  the  artist  can  be  born.  But  they  come  to  us 
in  such  a  rainbow  of  glory  that  all  subsequent  achieve- 
ment appears  dull  and  earthly  in  comparison.  We  were 
all  artists ;  almost  all  in  the  age  of  illusion,  cultivating 
an  imaginary  genius,  and  walking  to  the  strains  of  some 
deceiving  Ariel;  small  wonder,  indeed,  if  we  were 
happy!  But  art,  of  whatever  nature,  is  a  kind  mistress; 
and  though  these  dreams  of  youth  fall  by  their  own 
baselessness,  others  succeed,  graver  and  more  sub- 
stantial; the  symptoms  change,  the  amiable  malady 
endures ;  and  still,  at  an  equal  distance,  the  House 
Beautiful  shines  upon  its  hill-top. 


Gretz  lies  out  of  the  forest,  down  by  the  bright  river. 
It  boasts  a  mill,  an  ancient  church,  a  castle,  and  a  bridge 
of  many  sterlings.  And  the  bridge  is  a  piece  of  public 
property ;  anonymously  famous ;  beaming  on  the  incuri- 
ous dilettante  from  the  walls  of  a  hundred  exhibitions. 
I  have  seen  it  in  the  Salon ;  I  have  seen  it  in  the  Acad- 
emy ;  I  have  seen  it  in  the  last  French  Exposition,  ex- 
cellently done  by  Bloomer;  in  a  black-and-white,  by 
Mr.  A.  Henley,  it  once  adorned  this  essay  in  the  pages 
of  the  Magazine  of  Art.  Long-suffering  bridge !  And 
if  you  visit  Gretz  to-morrow,  you  shall  find  another  gen- 
eration, camped  at  the  bottom  of  Chevillon's  garden 
under  their  white  umbrellas,  and  doggedly  painting  it 
again. 

185 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

The  bridge  taken  for  granted,  Gretz  is  a  less  inspiring 
place  than  Barbizon.  I  give  it  the  palm  over  Cernay. 
There  is  something  ghastly  in  the  great  empty  village 
square  of  Cernay,  with  the  inn  tables  standing  in  one 
corner,  as  though  the  stage  were  set  for  rustic  opera, 
and  in  the  early  morning  all  the  painters  breaking  their 
fast  upon  white  wine  under  the  windows  of  the  vil- 
lagers. It  is  vastly  different  to  awake  in  Gretz,  to  go 
down  the  green  inn-garden,  to  find  the  river  streaming 
through  the  bridge,  and  to  see  the  dawn  begin  across 
the  poplared  level.  The  meals  are  laid  in  the  cool  ar- 
bour, under  fluttering  leaves.  The  splash  of  oars  and 
bathers,  the  bathing  costumes  out  to  dry,  the  trim  canoes 
beside  the  jetty,  tell  of  a  society  that  has  an  eye  to  plea- 
sure. There  is  "something  to  do  "  at  Gretz.  Perhaps, 
for  that  very  reason,  I  can  recall  no  such  enduring  ar- 
dours, no  such  glories  of  exhilaration,  as  among  the 
solemn  groves  and  uneventful  hours  of  Barbizon.  This 
* '  something  to  do  "  is  a  great  enemy  to  joy ;  it  is  a  way 
out  of  it;  you  wreak  your  high  spirits  on  some  cut-and- 
dry  employment,  and  behold  them  gone!  But  Gretz  is 
a  merry  place  after  its  kind :  pretty  to  see,  merry  to  in- 
habit. The  course  of  its  pellucid  river,  whether  up  or 
down,  is  full  of  gentle  attractions  for  the  navigator: 
islanded  reed-mazes  where,  in  autumn,  the  red  berries 
cluster;  the  mirrored  and  inverted  images  of  trees;  lil- 
ies, and  mills,  and  the  foam  and  thunder  of  weirs.  And 
of  all  noble  sweeps  of  roadway,  none  is  nobler,  on  a 
windy  dusk,  than  the  high  road  to  Nemours  between 
its  lines  of  talking  poplar. 

But  even  Gretz  is  changed.  The  old  inn,  long  shored 
and  trussed  and  buttressed,  fell  at  length  under  the  mere 

u86 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

weight  of  years,  and  the  place  as  it  was  is  but  a  fading 
image  in  the  memory  of  former  guests.  They,  indeed, 
recall  the  ancient  wooden  stair;  they  recall  the  rainy 
evening,  the  wide  hearth,  the  blaze  of  the  twig  fire, 
and  the  company  that  gathered  round  the  pillar  in  the 
kitchen.  But  the  material  fabric  is  now  dust;  soon, 
with  the  last  of  its  inhabitants,  its  very  memory  shall 
follow;  and  they,  in  their  turn,  shall  suffer  the  same 
law,  and,  both  in  name  and  lineament,  vanish  from  the 
world  of  men.  ''  For  remembrance  of  the  old  house' 
sake,"  as  Pepys  once  quaintly  put  it,  let  me  tell  one 
story.  When  the  tide  of  invasion  swept  over  France, 
two  foreign  painters  were  left  stranded  and  penniless  in 
Gretz;  and  there,  until  the  war  was  over,  the  Chevil- 
lons  ungrudgingly  harboured  them.  It  was  difficult  to 
obtain  supplies ;  but  the  two  waifs  were  still  welcome 
to  the  best,  sat  down  daily  with  the  family  to  table, 
and  at  the  due  intervals  were  supplied  with  clean  nap- 
kins, which  they  scrupled  to  employ.  Madame  Che- 
villon  observed  the  fact  and  reprimanded  them.  But 
they  stood  firm ;  eat  they  must,  but  having  no  money 
they  would  soil  no  napkins. 


VI 

Nemours  and  Moret,  for  all  they  are  so  picturesque, 
have  been  little  visited  by  painters.  They  are,  indeed, 
too  populous;  they  have  manners  of  their  own,  and 
might  resist  the  drastic  process  of  colonisation.  Mon- 
tigny  has  been  somewhat  strangely  neglected ;  I  never 
knew  it  inhabited  but  once,  when  Will  H.  Low  installed 
himself  there  with  a  barrel  of  piquette,  and  entertained 

187 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

his  friends  in  a  leafy  trellis  above  the  weir,  in  sight  of 
the  green  country  and  to  the  music  of  the  falling  water. 
It  was  a  most  airy,  quaint,  and  pleasant  place  of  resi- 
dence, just  too  rustic  to  be  stagey ;  and  from  my  mem- 
ories of  the  place  in  general,  and  that  garden  trellis  in 
particular — at  morning,  visited  by  birds,  or  at  night, 
when  the  dew  fell  and  the  stars  were  of  the  party  —  I 
am  inclined  to  think  perhaps  too  favourably  of  the  future 
of  Montigny.  Chailly-en-Biere  has  outlived  all  things, 
and  lies  dustily  slumbering  in  the  plain  —  the  cemetery 
of  itself  The  great  road  remains  to  testify  of  its  for- 
mer bustle  of  postilions  and  carriage  bells;  and,  like 
memorial  tablets,  there  still  hang  in  the  inn  room  the 
paintings  of  a  former  generation,  dead  or  decorated  long 
ago.  In  my  time,  one  man  only,  greatly  daring,  dwelt 
there.  From  time  to  time  he  would  walk  over  to  Bar- 
bizon,  like  a  shade  revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
and  after  some  communication  with  flesh  and  blood  re- 
turn to  his  austere  hermitage.  But  even  he,  when  I  last 
revisited  the  forest,  had  come  to  Barbizon  for  good,  and 
closed  the  roll  of  Chaillyites.  It  may  revive  —  but  I 
much  doubt  it.  Acheres  and  Recloses  still  wait  a  pio- 
neer; Bourron  is  out  of  the  question,  being  merely 
Gretz  over  again,  without  the  river,  the  bridge,  or  the 
beauty;  and  of  all  the  possible  places  on  the  western 
side,  Marlotte  alone  remains  to  be  discussed.  1  scarcely 
know  Marlotte,  and,  very  likely  for  that  reason,  am  not 
much  in  love  with  it.  It  seems  a  glaring  and  unsightly 
hamlet.  The  inn  of  Mother  Antonie  is  unattractive; 
and  its  more  reputable  rival,  though  comfortable  enough, 
is  commonplace.  Marlotte  has  a  name ;  it  is  famous ;  if  I 
were  the  young  painter  I  would  leave  it  alone  in  its  glory. 


FONTAINEBLEAU 


VII 


These  are  the  words  of  an  old  stager;  and  though 
time  is  a  good  conservative  in  forest  places,  much  may 
be  untrue  to-day.  Many  of  us  have  passed  Arcadian 
days  there  and  moved  on,  but  yet  left  a  portion  of  our 
souls  behind  us  buried  in  the  woods.  1  would  not  dig 
for  these  reliquiae;  they  are  incommunicable  treasures 
that  will  not  enrich  the  finder;  and  yet  there  may  lie, 
interred  below  great  oaks  or  scattered  along  forest  paths, 
stores  of  youth's  dynamite  and  dear  remembrances. 
And  as  one  generation  passes  on  and  renovates  the  field 
of  tillage  for  the  next,  I  entertain  a  fancy  that  when  the 
young  men  of  to-day  go  forth  into  the  forest,  they  shall 
find  the  air  still  vitalised  by  the  spirits  of  their  prede- 
cessors, and,  like  those  ''unheard  melodies"  that  are 
the  sweetest  of  all,  the  memory  of  our  laughter  shall 
still  haunt  the  field  of  trees.  Those  merry  voices  that 
in  woods  call  the  wanderer  farther,  those  thrilling  si- 
lences and  whispers  of  the  groves,  surely  in  Fontaine- 
bleau  they  must  be  vocal  of  me  and  my  companions  ? 
We  are  not  content  to  pass  away  entirely  from  the  scenes 
of  our  delight;  we  would  leave,  if  but  in  gratitude,  a 
pillar  and  a  legend. 

One  generation  after  another  fall  like  honey-bees  upon 
this  memorable  forest,  rifle  its  sweets,  pack  themselves 
with  vital  memories,  and  when  the  theft  is  consum- 
mated depart  again  into  life  richer,  but  poorer  also. 
The  forest,  indeed,  they  have  possessed,  from  that  day 
forward  it  is  theirs  indissolubly,  and  they  will  return  to 
walk  in  it  at  night  in  the  fondest  of  their  dreams,  and 
use  it  for  ever  in  their  books  and  pictures.     Yet  when 

189 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

they  made  their  packets,  and  put  up  their  notes  and 
sketches,  something,  it  should  seem,  had  been  forgot- 
ten. A  projection  of  themselves  shall  appear  to  h^unt 
unfriended  these  scenes  of  happiness,  a  natural  child 
of  fancy,  begotten  and  forgotten  unawares.  Over  the 
whole  field  of  our  wanderings  such  fetches  are  still 
travelling  like  indefatigable  bagmen;  but  the  imps  of 
Fontainebleau,  as  of  all  beloved  spots,  are  very  long  of 
life,  and  memory  is  piously  unwilling  to  forget  their 
orphanage.  If  anywhere  about  that  wood  you  meet 
my  airy  bantling,  greet  him  with  tenderness.  He  was 
a  pleasant  lad,  though  now  abandoned.  And  when  it 
comes  to  your  own  turn  to  quit  the  forest  may  you 
leave  behind  you  such  another;  no  Antony  or  Werther, 
let  us  hope,  no  tearful  whipster,  but,  as  becomes  this 
not  uncheerful  and  most  active  age  in  which  we  figure, 
the  child  of  happy  hours. 

No  art,  it  may  be  said,  was  ever  perfect,  and  not 
many  noble,  that  has  not  been  mirthfully  conceived. 
And  no  man,  it  may  be  added,  was  ever  anything 
but  a  wet  blanket  and  a  cross  to  his  companions  who 
boasted  not  a  copious  spirit  of  enjoyment.  Whether 
as  man  or  artist,  let  the  youth  make  haste  to  Fontaine- 
bleau, and  once  there  let  him  address  himself  to  the 
spirit  of  the  place;  he  will  learn  more  from  exercise 
than  from  studies,  although  both  are  necessary;  and 
if  he  can  get  into  his  heart  the  gaiety  and  inspiration 
of  the  woods  he  will  have  gone  far  to  undo  the  evil  of 
his  sketches.  A  spirit  once  well  strung  up  to  the  con- 
cert-pitch of  the  primeval  out-of-doors  will  hardly  dare 
to  finish  a  study  and  magniloquently  ticket  it  a  picture. 
The  incommunicable  thrill  of  things,  that  is  the  tuning- 

IQO 


FONTAINEBLEAU 

fork  by  which  we  test  the  flatness  of  our  art.  Here  it 
is  that  Nature  teaches  and  condemns,  and  still  spurs  up 
to  further  effort  and  new  failure.  Thus  it  is  that  she 
sets  us  blushing  at  our  ignorant  and  tepid  works ;  and 
the  more  we  find  of  these  inspiring  shocks  the  less 
shall  we  be  apt  to  love  the  literal  in  our  productions. 
In  all  sciences  and  senses  the  letter  kills;  and  to-day, 
when  cackling  human  geese  express  their  ignorant 
condemnation  of  all  studio  pictures,  it  is  a  lesson  most 
useful  to  be  learnt.  Let  the  young  painter  go  to  Fon- 
tainebleau,  and  while  he  stupefies  himself  with  studies 
that  teach  him  the  mechanical  side  of  his  trade,  let  him 
walk  in  the  great  air,  and  be  a  servant  of  mirth,  and 
not  pick  and  botanise,  but  wait  upon  the  moods  of 
nature.  So  he  will  learn  —  or  learn  not  to  forget — the 
poetry  of  life  and  earth,  which,  when  he  has  acquired 
his  track,  will  save  him  from  joyless  reproduction. 

[1882.] 


lOl 


IV.   EPILOGUE  TO   '' AN  INLAND  VOYAGE"^ 

The  country  where  they  journeyed,  that  green,  breezy 
valley  of  the  Loing,  is  one  very  attractive  to  cheerful  and 
solitary  people.  The  weather  was  superb ;  all  night  it 
thundered  and  lightened,  and  the  rain  fell  in  sheets ;  by 
day,  the  heavens  were  cloudless,  the  sun  fervent,  the 
air  vigorous  and  pure.  They  walked  separate:  the 
Cigarette  plodding  behind  with  some  philosophy,  the 
lean  Arethusa  posting  on  ahead.  Thus  each  enjoyed  his 
own  reflections  by  the  way ;  each  had  perhaps  time  to 
tire  of  them  before  he  met  his  comrade  at  the  designated 
inn ;  and  the  pleasures  of  society  and  solitude  combined 
to  fill  the  day.  The  Arethusa  carried  in  his  knapsack 
the  works  of  Charles  of  Orleans,  and  employed  some  of 
the  hours  of  travel  in  the  concoction  of  English  ron- 
dels. In  this  path,  he  must  thus  have  preceded  Mr. 
Lang,  Mr.  Dobson,  Mr.  Henley,  and  all  contemporary 
roundeleers ;  but  for  good  reasons,  he  will  be  the  last  to 
publish  the  result.  The  Cigarette  walked  burthened 
with  a  volume  of  Michelet.  And  both  these  books,  it 
will  be  seen,  played  a  part  in  the  subsequent  adventure. 

The  Arethusa  was  unwisely  dressed.  He  is  no  pre- 
cisian in  attire ;  but  by  all  accounts,  he  was  never  so  ill- 

1  See  An  Inland  Voyage,  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  1878. 
192 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

inspired  as  on  that  tramp;  having  set  forth  indeed,  upon 
a  moment's  notice,  from  the  most  unfashionable  spot  in 
Europe,  Barbizon.  On  his  head,  he  wore  a  smoking- 
cap  of  Indian  work,  the  gold  lace  pitifully  frayed  and 
tarnished.  A  flannel  shirt  of  an  agreeable  dark  hue, 
which  the  satirical  called  black ;  a  light  tweed  coat  made 
by  a  good  English  tailor;  ready-made  cheap  linen  trou- 
sers and  leathern  gaiters  completed  his  array.  In  person, 
he  is  exceptionally  lean ;  and  his  face  is  not  like  those  of 
happier  mortals,  a  certificate.  For  years  he  could  not 
pass  a  frontier  or  visit  a  bank  without  suspicion ;  the 
police  everywhere,  but  in  his  native  city,  looked  as- 
kance upon  him ;  and  (though  I  am  sure  it  will  not  be 
credited)  he  is  actually  denied  admittance  to  the  casino 
of  Monte  Carlo.  If  you  will  imagine  him,  dressed  as 
above,  stooping  under  his  knapsack,  walking  nearly 
five  miles  an  hour  with  the  folds  of  the  ready-made 
trousers  fluttering  about  his  spindle  shanks,  and  still 
looking  eagerly  round  him  as  if  in  terror  of  pursuit  — 
the  figure,  when  realised,  is  far  from  reassuring.  When 
Villon  journeyed  (perhaps  by  the  same  pleasant  valley) 
to  his  exile  at  Roussillon,  I  wonder  if  he  had  not  some- 
thing of  the  same  appearance.  Something  of  the  same 
preoccupation  he  had  beyond  a  doubt,  for  he  too  must 
have  tinkered  verses  as  he  walked,  with  more  success 
than  his  successor.  And  if  he  had  anything  like  the 
same  inspiring  weather,  the  same  nights  of  uproar,  men 
in  armour  rolling  and  resounding  down  the  stairs  of 
heaven,  the  rain  hissing  on  the  village  streets,  the  wild 
bull's-eye  of  the  storm  flashing  all  night  long  into  the 
bare  inn-chamber  —  the  same  sweet  return  of  day,  the 
same  unfathomable  blue  of  noon,  the  same  high-col- 

103 


EPILOGUE  TO   ''AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

oured,  halcyon  eves  —  and  above  all  if  he  had  anything 
like  as  good  a  comrade,  anything  like  as  keen  a  relish 
for  what  he  saw,  and  what  he  ate,  and  the  rivers  that 
he  bathed  in,  and  the  rubbish  that  he  wrote,  I  would  ex- 
change estates  to-day  with  the  poor  exile,  and  count 
myself  a  gainer. 

But  there  was  another  point  of  similarity  between  the 
two  journeys,  for  which  the  Arethusa  was  to  pay  dear: 
both  were  gone  upon  in  days  of  incomplete  security. 
It  was  not  long  after  the  Franco-Prussian  war.  Swiftly 
as  men  forget,  that  country-side  was  still  alive  with  tales 
of  uhlans,  and  outlying  sentries,  and  hairbreadth  *scapes 
from  the  ignominious  cord,  and  pleasant  momentary 
friendships  between  invader  and  invaded.  A  year,  at 
the  most  two  years  later,  you  might  have  tramped  all 
that  country  over  and  not  heard  one  anecdote.  And  a 
year  or  two  later,  you  would  —  if  you  were  a  rather  ill- 
looking  young  man  in  nondescript  array  —  have  gone 
your  rounds  in  greater  safety ;  for  along  with  more  in- 
teresting matter,  the  Prussian  spy  would  have  some- 
what faded  from  men's  imaginations. 

For  all  that,  our  voyager  had  got  beyond  Chateau 
Renard  before  he  was  conscious  of  arousing  wonder. 
On  the  road  between  that  place  and  Chatillon-sur-Loing, 
however,  he  encountered  a  rural  postman ;  they  fell  to- 
gether in  talk,  and  spoke  of  a  variety  of  subjects ;  but 
through  one  and  all,  the  postman  was  still  visibly  pre- 
occupied, and  his  eyes  were  faithful  to  the  Arethusa's 
knapsack.  At  last,  with  mysterious  roguishness,  he 
inquired  what  it  contained,  and  on  being  answered, 
shook  his  head  with  kindly  incredulity.  *'  Non/'  said 
he,  '' non,  vous  ave^  des portraits.'*    And  then  with  a 

194 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

languishing  appeal,  '"Voyons,  show  me  the  portraits!  " 
It  was  some  little  while  before  the  Arethusa,  with  a 
shout  of  laughter,  recognised  his  drift.  By  portraits  he 
meant  indecent  photographs;  and  in  the  Arethusa,  an 
austere  and  rising  author,  he  thought  to  have  identified 
a  pornographic  colporteur.  When  countryfolk  in  France 
have  made  up  their  minds  as  to  a  person's  calling,  ar- 
gument is  fruitless.  Along  all  the  rest  of  the  way,  the 
postman  piped  and  fluted  meltinglv  to  get  a  sight  of  the 
collection ;  now  he  would  upbraid,  now  he  would  rea- 
son—  "'yqyons,  I  will  tell  nobody";  then  he  tried  cor- 
ruption, and  insisted  on  paying  for  a  glass  of  wine; 
and,  at  last,  when  their  ways  separated  —  ''Non/'  said 
he,  "ce  n*est  pas  Men  de  voire  part.  O  non,  ce  n'est 
pas  hien."  And  shaking  his  head  with  quite  a  senti- 
mental sense  of  injury,  he  departed  unrefreshed. 

On  certain  little  difficulties  encountered  by  the  Are- 
thusa at  Chatillon-sur-Loing,  I  have  not  space  to  dwell ; 
another  Chatillon,  of  grislier  memory,  looms  too  near 
at  hand.  But  the  next  day,  in  a  certain  hamlet  called 
La  Jussiere,  he  stopped  to  drink  a  glass  of  syrup  in  a 
very  poor,  bare  drinking  shop.  The  hostess,  a  comely 
woman,  suckling  a  child,  examined  the  traveller  with 
kindly  and  pitying  eyes.  "  You  are  not  of  this  depart- 
ment.?*" she  asked.  The  Arethusa  told  her  he  was 
English.  "Ah!"  she  said,  surprised.  "We  have  no 
English.  We  have  many  Italians,  however,  and  they 
do  very  well ;  they  do  not  complain  of  the  people  of 
hereabouts.  An  Englishman  may  do  very  well  also;  it 
will  be  something  new."  Here  was  a  dark  saying,  over 
which  the  Arethusa  pondered  as  he  drank  his  grena- 
dine; but  when  he  rose  and  asked  what  was  to  pay, 

195 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

the  light  came  upon  him  in  a  flash.  "'O,  pour  votis/' 
replied  the  landlady,  ''a  halfpenny! "  Pour  vous ?  By 
heaven,  she  took  him  for  a  beggar!  He  paid  his  half- 
penny, feeling  that  it  were  ungracious  to  correct  her. 
But  when  he  was  forth  again  upon  the  road,  he  became 
vexed  in  spirit.  The  conscience  is  no  gentleman,  he  is 
a  rabbinical  fellow ;  and  his  conscience  told  him  he  had 
stolen  the  syrup. 

That  night  the  travellers  slept  in  Gien;  the  next 
day  they  passed  the  river  and  set  forth  (severally,  as 
their  custom  was)  on  a  short  stage  through  the  green 
plain  upon  the  Berry  side,  to  Chatillon-sur-Loire.  It 
was  the  first  day  of  the  shooting ;  and  the  air  rang  with 
the  report  of  firearms  and  the  admiring  cries  of  sports- 
men. Overhead  the  birds  were  in  consternation,  wheel- 
ing in  clouds,  settling  and  re-arising.  And  yet  with  all 
this  bustle  on  either  hand,  the  road  itself  lay  solitary. 
The  Arethusa  smoked  a  pipe  beside  a  milestone,  and  I 
remember  he  laid  down  very  exactly  all  he  was  to  do  at 
Chatillon :  how  he  was  to  enjoy  a  cold  plunge,  to  change 
his  shirt,  and  to  await  the  Cigarette's  arrival,  in  sublime 
inaction,  by  the  margin  of  the  Loire.  Fired  by  these 
ideas,  he  pushed  the  more  rapidly  forward,  and  came, 
early  in  the  afternoon  and  in  a  breathing  heat,  to  the 
entering-in  of  that  ill-fated  town.  Childe  Roland  to 
the  dark  tower  came. 

A  polite  gendarme  threw  his  shadow  on  the  path. 

''^  Monsieur  estvoyageur?''  he  asked. 

And  the  Arethusa,  strong  in  his  innocence,  forgetful 
of  his  vile  attire,  replied  —  I  had  almost  said  with  gaiety : 
*'So  it  would  appear." 

* '  His  papers  are  in  order .?  "  said  the  gendarme.     And 

1^6 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

when  the  Arethusa,  with  a  slight  change  of  voice,  ad- 
mitted he  had  none,  he  was  informed  (politely  enough) 
that  he  must  appear  before  the  Commissary. 

The  Commissary  sat  at  a  table  in  his  bedroom, 
stripped  to  the  shirt  and  trousers,  but  still  copiously 
perspiring;  and  when  he  turned  upon  the  prisoner  a 
large  meaningless  countenance,  that  was  (like  Bar- 
dolph's)  *'all  whelks  and  bubuckles,"  the  dullest  might 
have  been  prepared  for  grief.  Here  was  a  stupid  man, 
sleepy  with  the  heat  and  fretful  at  the  interruption, 
whom  neither  appeal  nor  argument  could  reach. 

The  Commissary.     You  have  no  papers  ? 

The  Arethusa.     Not  here. 

The  Commissary.     Why  ? 

The  Arethusa.    I  have  left  them  behind  in  my  valise. 

The  Commissary.  You  know,  however,  that  it  is  for- 
bidden to  circulate  without  papers  ? 

The  Arethusa.  Pardon  me :  I  am  convinced  of  the 
contrary.  I  am  here  on  my  rights  as  an  English  subject 
by  international  treaty. 

The  Commissary  {wttb  scorn).  You  call  yourself  an 
Englishman  ? 

The  Arethusa.     I  do. 

The  Commissary.     Humph. —  What  is  your  trade  ? 

The  Arethusa.     I  am  a  Scotch  Advocate. 

The  Commissary  {with  singular  annoyance).  A  Scotch 
advocate !  Do  you  then  pretend  to  support  yourself  by 
that  in  this  department } 

The  Arethusa  modestly  disclaimed  the  pretension. 
The  Commissary  had  scored  a  point. 

The  Commissary.     Why,  then,  do  you  travel  ? 

The  Arethusa.     I  travel  for  pleasure. 

197 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

The  Commissary  (pointing  to  the  knapsack,  and  with 
sublime  incredulity).  Avec  ^a  ?  Voyei-vous,  je  suis 
un  homme  intelligent !  (With  that  ?  Look  here,  I  am  a 
person  of  intelligence ! ) 

The  culprit  remaining  silent  under  this  home  thrust, 
the  Commissary  relished  his  triumph  for  a  while,  and 
then  demanded  (like  the  postman,  but  with  what  dif- 
ferent expectations ! )  to  see  the  contents  of  the  knap- 
sack. And  here  the  Arethusa,  not  yet  sufficiently  awake 
to  his  position,  fell  into  a  grave  mistake.  There  was 
little  or  no  furniture  in  the  room  except  the  Commis- 
sary's chair  and  table;  and  to  facilitate  matters,  the 
Arethusa  (with  all  the  innocence  on  earth)  leant  the 
knapsack  on  a  corner  of  the  bed.  The  Commissary 
fairly  bounded  from  his  seat;  his  face  and  neck  flushed 
past  purple,  almost  into  blue;  and  he  screamed  to  lay 
the  desecrating  object  on  the  floor. 

The  knapsack  proved  to  contain  a  change  of  shirts, 
of  shoes,  of  socks,  and  of  linen  trousers,  a  small  dress- 
ing-case, a  piece  of  soap  in  one  of  the  shoes,  two  vol- 
umes of  the  Collection  Jannet  lettered  Poesies  de  Charles 
d' Orleans,  a  map,  and  a  version  book  containing  divers 
notes  in  prose  and  the  remarkable  English  roundels  of 
the  voyager,  still  to  this  day  unpublished :  the  Commis- 
sary of  Chatillon  is  the  only  living  man  who  has  clapped 
an  eye  on  these  artistic  trifles.  He  turned  the  assort- 
ment over  with  a  contumelious  finger;  it  was  plain 
from  his  daintiness  that  he  regarded  the  Arethusa  and 
all  his  belongings  as  the  very  temple  of  infection.  Still 
there  was  nothing  suspicious  about  the  map,  nothing 
really  criminal  except  the  roundels;  as  for  Charles  of 
Orleans,  to  the  ignorant  mind  of  the  prisoner,  he  seemed 

198 


EPILOGUE   TO   "AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

as  good  as  a  certificate ;  and  it  was  supposed  the  farce 
was  nearly  over. 

The  inquisitor  resumed  his  seat. 

The  Commissary  {after  a  pause).  Eh  bien,je  vais  vous 
dire  ce  que  vous  etes.  Vous  etes  aUemand  et  vous  veneT^ 
chanter  a  la  foire.  (Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
are.  You  are  a  German  and  have  come  to  sing  at  the 
fair.) 

The  Arethusa.  Would  you  like  to  hear  me  sing  }  1 
believe  I  could  convince  you  of  the  contrary. 

The  Commissary.     Pas  de  plaisanterie,  monsieur  ! 

The  Arethusa.  Well,  sir,  oblige  me  at  least  by  look- 
ing at  this  book.  Here,  I  open  it  with  my  eyes  shut. 
Read  one  of  these  songs  —  read  this  one  —  and  tell  me, 
you  who  are  a  man  of  intelligence,  if  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  sing  it  at  a  fair  } 

The  Commissary  {critically),    Mais  oui.     Tres  Men, 

The  Arethusa.  Comment,  monsieur !  What !  But 
you  do  not  observe  it  is  antique.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand, even  for  you  and  me;  but  for  the  audience  at  a 
fair,  it  would  be  meaningless. 

The  Commissary  {taking  a  pen).  Enfin,  il  faut  en 
finir.     What  is  your  name  } 

The  Arethusa  {speaking  with  the  swallowing  vivacity 
of  the  English).     Robert-Louis-Stev'ns'n. 

The  Commissary  {aghast).     He!    Qiioi? 

The  Arethusa  {perceiving  and  improving  his  advan- 
tage).    Rob'rt-Lou's-Stev'ns'n. 

The  Commissary  {after  several  conflicts  with  his  pen). 
Eh  Men,  il  faut  se  passer  du  nom.  (^a  ne  s'ecrit  pas, 
(Well,  we  must  do  without  the  name:  it  is  unspella- 
ble.) 

199 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

The  above  is  a  rough  summary  of  this  momentous 
conversation,  in  which  I  have  been  chiefly  careful  to 
preserve  the  plums  of  the  Commissary;  but  the  remain- 
der of  the  scene,  perhaps  because  of  his  rising  anger, 
has  left  but  little  definite  in  the  memory  of  the  Arethusa. 
The  Commissary  was  not,  I  think,  a  practised  literary 
man ;  no  sooner,  at  least,  had  he  taken  pen  in  hand  and 
embarked  on  the  composition  of  the  proces-verbal,  than 
he  became  distinctly  more  uncivil  and  began  to  show  a 
predilection  for  that  simplest  of  all  forms  of  repartee: 
**  You  lie! "  Several  times  the  Arethusa  let  it  pass,  and 
then  suddenly  flared  up,  refused  to  accept  more  insults 
or  to  answer  further  questions,  defied  the  Commissary 
to  do  his  worst,  and  promised  him,  if  he  did,  that  he 
should  bitterly  repent  it.  Perhaps  if  he  had  worn  this 
proud  front  from  the  first,  instead  of  beginning  with  a 
sense  of  entertainment  and  then  going  on  to  argue,  the 
thing  might  have  turned  otherwise;  for  even  at  this 
eleventh  hour  the  Commissary  was  visibly  staggered. 
But  it  was  too  late ;  he  had  been  challenged ;  the  proces- 
verbal  was  begun;  and  he  again  squared  his  elbows 
over  his  writing,  and  the  Arethusa  was  led  forth  a  pris- 
oner. 

A  step  or  two  down  the  hot  road  stood  the  gendar- 
merie. Thither  was  our  unfortunate  conducted,  and 
there  he  was  bidden  to  empty  forth  the  contents  of  his 
pockets.  A  handkerchief,  a  pen,  a  pencil,  a  pipe  and 
tobacco,  matches,  and  some  ten  francs  of  change :  that 
was  all.  Not  a  file,  not  a  cipher,  not  a  scrap  of  writing 
whether  to  identify  or  to  condemn.  The  very  gendarme 
was  appalled  before  such  destitution. 

**I  regret,"  he  said,  '*that  I  arrested  you,  for  I  see 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

that  you  are  no  voyou.  * '  And  he  promised  him  every 
indulgence. 

The  Arethusa,  thus  encouraged,  asked  for  his  pipe. 
That  he  was  told  was  impossible,  but  if  he  chewed,  he 
might  have  some  tobacco.  He  did  not  chew,  however, 
and  asked  instead  to  have  his  handkerchief 

'' Non/'  said  the  gendarme.  '"Nous  avons  eu  des 
histoires  de  gens  qui  se  sontpendm. ' '  (No,  we  have  had 
histories  of  people  who  hanged  themselves.) 

"What,"  cried  the  Arethusa.  ''And  is  it  for  that 
you  refuse  me  my  handkerchief?  But  see  how  much 
more  easily  I  could  hang  myself  in  my  trousers!" 

The  man  was  struck  by  the  novelty  of  the  idea;  but 
he  stuck  to  his  colours,  and  only  continued  to  repeat 
vague  olTers  of  service. 

'*  At  least,"  said  the  Arethusa,  ''be  sure  that  you  ar- 
rest my  comrade;  he  will  follow  me  ere  long  on  the 
same  road,  and  you  can  tell  him  by  the  sack  upon  his 
shoulders." 

This  promised,  the  prisoner  was  led  round  into  the 
back  court  of  the  building,  a  cellar  door  was  opened,  he 
was  motioned  down  the  stair,  and  bolts  grated  and 
chains  clanged  behind  his  descending  person. 

The  philosophic  and  still  more  the  imaginative  mind 
is  apt  to  suppose  itself  prepared  for  any  mortal  accident. 
Prison,  among  other  ills,  was  one  that  had  been  often 
faced  by  the  undaunted  Arethusa.  Even  as  he  went 
down  the  stairs,  he  was  telling  himself  that  here  was  a 
famous  occasion  for  a  roundel,  and  that  like  the  com- 
mitted linnets  of  the  tuneful  cavalier,  he  too  would 
make  his  prison  musical.  I  will  tell  the  truth  at  once : 
the  roundel  was  never  written,  or  it  should  be  printed 

201 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

in  this  place,  to  raise  a  smile.     Two  reasons  interfered : 
the  first  moral,  the  second  physical. 

It  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  human  nature,  that  al- 
though all  men  are  liars,  they  can  none  of  them  bear  to 
be  told  so  of  themselves.  To  get  and  take  the  lie  w^ith 
equanimity  is  a  stretch  beyond  the  stoic ;  and  the  Are- 
thusa,  who  had  been  surfeited  upon  that  insult,  was 
blazing  inwardly  with  a  white  heat  of  smothered  wrath. 
But  the  physical  had  also  its  part.  The  cellar  in  which 
he  was  confined  was  some  feet  underground,  and  it  was 
only  lighted  by  an  unglazed,  narrow  aperture  high  up 
in  the  wall  and  smothered  in  the  leaves  of  a  green  vine. 
The  walls  were  of  naked  masonry,  the  floor  of  bare 
earth ;  by  way  of  furniture  there  was  an  earthenware 
basin,  a  water-jug,  and  a  wooden  bedstead  with  a  blue- 
gray  cloak  for  bedding.  To  be  taken  from  the  hot  air 
of  a  summer's  afternoon,  the  reverberation  of  the  road 
and  the  stir  of  rapid  exercise,  and  plunged  into  the 
gloom  and  damp  of  this  receptacle  for  vagabonds, 
struck  an  instant  chill  upon  the  Arethusa's  blood.  Now 
see  in  how  small  a  matter  a  hardship  may  consist :  the 
floor  was  exceedingly  uneven  underfoot,  with  the  very 
spade-marks,  I  suppose,  of  the  labourers  who  dug  the 
foundations  of  the  barrack;  and  what  with  the  poor 
twilight  and  the  irregular  surface,  walking  was  impos- 
sible. The  caged  author  resisted  for  a  good  while;  but 
the  chill  of  the  place  struck  deeper  and  deeper;  and  at 
length,  with  such  reluctance  as  you  may  fancy,  he  was 
driven  to  climb  upon  the  bed  and  wrap  himself  in  the 
public  covering.  There,  then,  he  lay  upon  the  verge 
of  shivering,  plunged  in  semi-darkness,  wound  in  a 
garment  whose  touch  he  dreaded  like  the  plague,  and 

202 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN    INLAND   VOYAGE" 

(in  a  spirit  far  removed  from  resignation)  telling  the  roll 
of  the  insults  he  had  just  received.  These  are  not  cir- 
cumstances favourable  to  the  muse. 

Meantime  (to  look  at  the  upper  surface  where  the 
sun  was  still  shining  and  the  guns  of  sportsmen  were 
still  noisy  through  the  tufted  plain)  the  Cigarette  was 
drawing  near  at  his  more  philosophic  pace.  In  those 
days  of  liberty  and  health  he  was  the  constant  partner 
of  the  Arethusa,  and  had  ample  opportunity  to  share  in 
that  gentleman's  disfavour  with  the  police.  Many  a 
bitter  bowl  had  he  partaken  of  with  that  disastrous 
comrade.  He  was  himself  a  man  born  to  float  easily 
through  life,  his  face  and  manner  artfully  recommending 
him  to  all.  There  was  but  one  suspicious  circumstance 
he  could  not  carry  off,  and  that  was  his  companion. 
He  will  not  readily  forget  the  Commissary  in  what  is 
ironically  called  the  free  town  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main ; 
nor  the  Franco-Belgian  frontier;  nor  the  inn  at  La  Fere; 
last,  but  not  least,  he  is  pretty  certain  to  remember 
Chatillon-sur-Loire. 

At  the  town  entry,  the  gendarme  culled  him  like  a 
wayside  flower;  and  a  moment  later,  two  persons,  in  a 
high  state  of  surprise,  were  confronted  in  the  Commis- 
sary's office.  For  if  the  Cigarette  was  surprised  to  be 
arrested,  the  Commissary  was  no  less  taken  aback  by  the 
appearance  and  appointments  of  his  captive.  Here  was 
a  man  about  whom  there  could  be  no  mistake :  a  man 
of  an  unquestionable  and  unassailable  manner,  in  apple- 
pie  order,  dressed  not  with  neatness  merely  but  elegance, 
ready  with  his  passport,  at  a  word,  and  well  supplied 
with  money :  a  man  the  Commissary  would  have  dofTed 
his  hat  to  on  chance  upon  the  highway ;  and  this  beau 

203 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

cavalier  unblushingly  claimed  the  Arethusa  for  his  com- 
rade !  The  conclusion  of  the  interview  was  foregone ; 
of  its  humours,  I  remember  only  one.  *'  Baronet?"  de- 
manded the  magistrate,  glancing  up  from  the  passport. 
"  Alors,  monsieur,  votes  etes  lefils  d'un  baron?  "  And 
when  the  Cigarette  (his  one  mistake  throughout  the  in- 
terview) denied  the  soft  impeachment,  '"Alors,"  from 
the  Commissary,  ''  ce  n' est  pas  votre  passeportl"  But 
these  were  ineffectual  thunders;  he  never  dreamed  of 
laying  hands  upon  the  Cigarette ;  presently  he  fell  into 
a  mood  of  unrestrained  admiration,  gloating  over  the 
contents  of  the  knapsack,  commending  our  friend's 
tailor.  Ah,  what  an  honoured  guest  was  the  Commis- 
sary entertaining !  what  suitable  clothes  he  wore  for  the 
warm  weather !  what  beautiful  maps,  what  an  attractive 
work  of  history  he  carried  in  his  knapsack !  You  are  to 
understand  there  was  now  but  one  point  of  difference 
between  them :  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  Arethusa  ? 
the  Cigarette  demanding  his  release,  the  Commissary 
still  claiming  him  as  the  dungeon's  own.  Now  it  chanced 
that  the  Cigarette  had  passed  some  years  of  his  life  in 
Egypt,  where  he  had  made  acquaintance  with  two  very 
bad  things,  cholera  morbus  and  pashas ;  and  in  the  eye 
of  the  Commissary,  as  he  fingered  the  volume  of  Mi- 
chelet,  it  seemed  to  our  traveller  there  was  something 
Turkish.  I  pass  over  this  lightly ;  it  is  highly  possible 
there  was  some  misunderstanding,  highly  possible  that 
the  Commissary  (charmed  with  his  visitor)  supposed 
the  attraction  to  be  mutual  and  took  for  an  act  of  grow- 
ing friendship  what  the  Cigarette  himself  regarded  as  a 
bribe.  And  at  any  rate,  was  there  ever  a  bribe  more 
singular  than  an  odd  volume  of  Michelet's  history  ?  The. 

204 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

work  was  promised  him  for  the  morrow,  before  our 
departure;  and  presently  after,  either  because  he  had 
his  price,  or  to  show  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  be  be- 
hind in  friendly  offices — "'Eh  bien/'  he  said,  "" je  sup- 
pose  qu'il  faut  Idcher  voire  camarade. ' '  And  he  tore 
up  that  feast  of  humour,  the  unfinished  proces-verbal. 
Ah,  if  he  had  only  torn  up  instead  the  Arethusa's  roun- 
dels! There  were  many  works  burnt  at  Alexandria, 
there  are  many  treasured  in  the  British  Museum,  that  I 
could  better  spare  than  the  proces-verbal  of  Chatillon. 
Poor  bubuckled  Commissary !  I  begin  to  be  sorry  that 
he  never  had  his  Michelet:  perceiving  in  him  fine  human 
traits,  a  broad-based  stupidity,  a  gusto  in  his  magisterial 
functions,  a  taste  for  letters,  a  ready  admiration  for  the 
admirable.  And  if  he  did  not  admire  the  Arethusa,  he 
was  not  alone  in  that. 

To  the  imprisoned  one,  shivering  under  the  public 
covering,  there  came  suddenly  a  noise  of  bolts  and 
chains.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  ready  to  welcome  a  com- 
panion in  calamity ;  and  instead  of  that,  the  door  was 
flung  wide,  the  friendly  gendarme  appeared  above  in 
the  strong  daylight,  and  with  a  magnificent  gesture 
(being  probably  a  student  of  the  drama)  —  ''Vom  etes 
Hbre!  "  he  said.  None  too  soon  for  the  Arethusa.  I 
doubt  if  he  had  been  half  an  hour  imprisoned;  but  by 
the  watch  in  a  man's  brain  (which  was  the  only  watch 
he  carried)  he  should  have  been  eight  times  longer;  and 
he  passed  forth  with  ecstasy  up  the  cellar  stairs  into  the 
healing  warmth  of  the  afternoon  sun ;  and  the  breath  of 
the  earth  came  as  sweet  as  a  cow's  into  his  nostril ;  and 
he  heard  again  (and  could  have  laughed  for  pleasure)  the 
concord  of  delicate  noises  that  we  call  the  hum  of  life, 

205 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN  INLAND  VOYAGE" 

And  here  it  might  be  thought  that  my  history  ended ; 
but  not  so,  this  was  an  act-drop  and  not  the  curtain. 
Upon  what  followed  in  front  of  the  barrack,  since  there 
was  a  lady  in  the  case,  I  scruple  to  expatiate.  The  wife 
of  the  Marechal-des-logis  was  a  handsome  woman,  and 
yet  the  Arethusa  was  not  sorry  to  be  gone  from  her  so- 
ciety. Something  of  her  image,  cool  as  a  peach  on  that 
hot  afternoon,  still  lingers  in  his  memory :  yet  more  of 
her  conversation.  ''You  have  there  a  very  fine  par- 
lour," said  the  poor  gentleman.  — "  Ah,"  said  Madame 
la  Marechale  (des-Iogis),  "you  are  very  well  acquainted 
with  such  parlours!  "  And  you  should  have  seen  with 
what  a  hard  and  scornful  eye  she  measured  the  vaga- 
bond before  her !  I  do  not  think  he  ever  hated  the  Com- 
missary ;  but  before  that  interview  was  at  an  end,  he 
hated  Madame  la  Marechale.  His  passion  (as  I  am  led 
to  understand  by  one  who  was  present)  stood  confessed 
in  a  burning  eye,  a  pale  cheek,  and  a  trembling  utter- 
ance ;  Madame  meanwhile  tasting  the  joys  of  the  mata- 
dor, goading  him  with  barbed  words  and  staring  him 
coldly  down. 

It  was  certainly  good  to  be  away  from  this  lady,  and 
better  still  to  sit  down  to  an  excellent  dinner  in  the  inn. 
Here,  too,  the  despised  travellers  scraped  acquaintance 
with  their  next  neighbour,  a  gentleman  of  these  parts, 
returned  from  the  day's  sport,  who  had  the  good  taste 
to  find  pleasure  in  their  society.  The  dinner  at  an  end, 
the  gentleman  proposed  the  acquaintance  should  be 
ripened  in  the  cafe. 

The  cafe  was  crowded  with  sportsmen  conclamantly 
explaining  to  each  other  and  the  world  the  smallness  of 
their  bags.     About  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  Ciga- 

206 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND   VOYAGE" 

rette  and  the  Arethusa  sat  with  their  new  acquaintance ; 
a  trio  very  well  pleased,  for  the  travellers  (after  their 
late  experience)  were  greedy  of  consideration,  and  their 
sportsman  rejoiced  in  a  pair  of  patient  listeners.  Sud- 
denly the  glass  door  flew  open  with  a  crash ;  the  Mare- 
chal-des-logis  appeared  in  the  interval,  gorgeously  belted 
and  befrogged,  entered  without  salutation,  strode  up  the 
room  with  a  clang  of  spurs  and  weapons,  and  disap- 
peared through  a  door  at  the  far  end.  Close  at  his  heels 
followed  the  Arethusa's  gendarme  of  the  afternoon,  im- 
itating, with  a  nice  shade  of  difference,  the  imperial 
bearing  of  his  chief ;  only,  as  he  passed,  he  struck 
lightly  with  his  open  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  late 
captive,  and  with  that  ringing,  dramatic  utterance  of 
which  he  had  the  secret  — '"  Suive:(^!  "  said  he. 

The  arrest  of  the  members,  the  oath  of  the  Tennis 
Court,  the  signing  of  the  declaration  of  independence, 
Mark  Antony's  oration,  all  the  brave  scenes  of  history, 
I  conceive  as  having  been  not  unlike  that  evening  in  the 
cafe  at  Chatillon.  Terror  breathed  upon  the  assembly. 
A  moment  later,  when  the  Arethusa  had  followed  his 
recaptors  into  the  farther  part  of  the  house,  the  Ciga- 
rette found  himself  alone  with  his  coffee  in  a  ring  of 
empty  chairs  and  tables,  all  the  lusty  sportsmen  huddled 
into  corners,  all  their  clamorous  voices  hushed  in  whis- 
pering, all  their  eyes  shooting  at  him  furtively  as  at  a 
leper. 

And  the  Arethusa  }  Well,  he  had  a  long,  sometimes 
a  trying,  interview  in  the  back  kitchen.  The  Marechal- 
des-logis,  who  was  a  very  handsome  man,  and  I  believe 
both  intelligent  and  honest,  had  no  clear  opinion  on  the 
case.     He  thought  the  Commissary  had  done  wrong, 

207 


EPILOGUE  TO   "AN   INLAND  VOYAGE" 

but  he  did  not  wish  to  get  his  subordinates  into  trouble ; 
and  he  proposed  this,  that,  and  the  other,  to  all  of  which 
the  Arethusa  (with  a  growing  sense  of  his  position) 
demurred. 

"In  short,"  suggested  the  Arethusa,  **you  want  to 
wash  your  hands  of  further  responsibility  ?  Well,  then, 
let  me  go  to  Paris.'* 

The  Marechal-des-logis  looked  at  his  watch. 

**  You  may  leave,"  said  he,  **by  the  ten  o'clock  train 
for  Paris." 

And  at  noon  the  next  day  the  travellers  were  telling 
their  misadventure  in  the  dining-room  at  Siron's. 


ao8 


V.    RANDOM  MEMORIES 

I.    THE  COAST   OF   FIFE 

Many  writers  have  vigorously  described  the  pains  of 
the  first  day  or  the  first  night  at  school;  to  a  boy  of 
any  enterprise,  I  believe,  they  are  more  often  agreeably 
exciting.  Misery  —  or  at  least  misery  unrelieved  —  is 
confined  to  another  period,  to  the  days  of  suspense  and 
the  '*  dreadful  looking-for"  of  departure;  when  the  old 
life  is  running  to  an  end,  and  the  new  life,  with  its  new 
interests,  not  yet  begun ;  and  to  the  pain  of  an  immi- 
nent parting,  there  is  added  the  unrest  of  a  state  of  con- 
scious pre-existence.  The  area-railings,  the  beloved 
shop-window,  the  smell  of  semi-suburban  tanpits,  the 
song  of  the  church-bells  upon  a  Sunday,  the  thin,  high 
voices  of  compatriot  children  in  a  playing-field  —  what 
a  sudden,  what  an  overpowering  pathos  breathes  to  him 
from  each  familiar  circumstance !  The  assaults  of  sor- 
row come  not  from  within,  as  it  seems  to  him,  but  from 
without.  ]  was  proud  and  glad  to  go  to  school ;  had  I 
been  let  alone,  I  could  have  borne  up  like  any  hero ;  but 
there  was  around  me,  in  all  my  native  town,  a  conspir- 
acy of  lamentation :  '*  Poor  little  boy,  he  is  going  away 
—  unkind  little  boy,  he  is  going  to  leave  us  " ;  so  the  un- 
spoken burthen  followed  me  as  I  went,  with  yearning 
and  reproach.    And  at  length,  one  melancholy  afternoon 

209 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

in  the  early  autumn,  and  at  a  place  where  it  seems  to 
me,  looking  back,  it  must  be  always  autumn  and  gen- 
erally Sunday,  there  came  suddenly  upon  the  face  of  all 
I  saw  —  the  long  empty  road,  the  lines  of  the  tall  houses, 
the  church  upon  the  hill,  the  woody  hillside  garden  — 
a  look  of  such  a  piercing  sadness  that  my  heart  died ; 
and  seating  myself  on  a  door-step,  I  shed  tears  of  mis- 
erable sympathy.  A  benevolent  cat  cumbered  me  the 
while  with  consolations  —  we  two  were  alone  in  all  that 
was  visible  of  the  London  Road :  two  poor  waifs  who 
had  each  tasted  sorrow  —  and  she  fawned  upon  the 
weeper,  and  gambolled  for  his  entertainment,  watching 
the  effect,  it  seemed,  with  motherly  eyes. 

For  the  sake  of  the  cat,  God  bless  her!  I  confessed  at 
home  the  story  of  my  weakness ;  and  so  it  comes  about 
that  I  owed  a  certain  journey,  and  the  reader  owes  the 
present  paper,  to  a  cat  in  the  London  Road.  It  was 
judged,  if  I  had  thus  brimmed  over  on  the  public  high- 
way, some  change  of  scene  was  (in  the  medical  sense) 
indicated ;  my  father  at  the  time  was  visiting  the  harbour 
lights  of  Scotland ;  and  it  was  decided  he  should  take 
me  along  with  him  around  a  portion  of  the  shores  of 
Fife ;  my  first  professional  tour,  my  first  journey  in  the 
complete  character  of  man,  without  the  help  of  petti- 
coats. 

The  Kingdom  of  Fife  (that  royal  province)  may  be 
observed  by  the  curious  on  the  map,  occupying  a  tongue 
of  land  between  the  firths  of  Forth  and  Tay.  It  may  be 
continually  seen  from  many  parts  of  Edinburgh  (among 
the  rest,  from  the  windows  of  my  father's  house)  dying 
away  into  the  distance  and  the  easterly  baar  with  one 
smoky  seaside  town  beyond  another,  or  in  winter  print- 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

ing  on  the  gray  heaven  some  glittering  hill-tops.  It  has 
no  beauty  to  recommend  it,  being  a  low,  sea-salted, 
wind- vexed  promontory;  trees  very  rare,  except  (as 
common  on  the  east  coast)  along  the  dens  of  rivers ;  the 
fields  well  cultivated,  I  understand,  but  not  lovely  to 
the  eye.  It  is  of  the  coast  I  speak :  the  interior  may  be 
the  garden  of  Eden.  History  broods  over  that  part  of 
the  world  like  the  easterly  haar.  Even  on  the  map,  its 
long  row  of  Gaelic  place-names  bear  testimony  to  an 
old  and  settled  race.  Of  these  little  towns,  posted 
along  the  shore  as  close  as  sedges,  each  with  its  bit  of 
harbour,  its  old  weather-beaten  church  or  public  build- 
ing, its  flavour  of  decayed  prosperity  and  decaying  fish, 
not  one  but  has  its  legend,  quaint  or  tragic :  Dunferm- 
line, in  whose  royal  towers  the  king  may  be  still  ob- 
served (in  the  ballad)  drinking  the  blood-red  wine; 
somnolent  Inverkeithing,  once  the  quarantine  of  Leith ; 
Aberdour,  hard  by  the  monastic  islet  of  Inchcolm,  hard 
by  Donibristle  where  the  ''bonny  face  was  spoiled"; 
Burntisland  where,  when  Paul  Jones  was  off  the  coast, 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Shirra  had  a  table  carried  between 
tide-marks,  and  publicly  prayed  against  the  rover  at  the 
pitch  of  his  voice  and  his  broad  lowland  dialect;  King- 
horn,  where  Alexander  "brak's  neckbane"  and  left 
Scotland  to  the  English  wars;  Kirkcaldy,  where  the 
witches  once  prevailed  extremely  and  sank  tall  ships 
and  honest  mariners  in  the  North  Sea;  Dysart,  famous 
—  well  famous  at  least  to  me  for  the  Dutch  ships  that 
lay  in  its  harbour,  painted  like  toys  and  with  pots  of 
flowers  and  cages  of  song-birds  in  the  cabin  windows, 
and  for  one  particular  Dutch  skipper  who  would  sit  all 
day  in  slippers  on  the  break  of  the  poop,  smoking  a 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

long  German  pipe;  Wemyss  (pronounce  Weems)  with 
its  bat-haunted  caves,  where  the  Chevalier  Johnstone, 
on  his  flight  from  Culloden,  passed  a  night  of  supersti- 
tious terrors ;  Leven,  a  bald,  quite  modern  place,  sacred 
to  summer  visitors,  whence  there  has  gone  but  yester- 
day the  tall  figure  and  the  white  locks  of  the  last  En- 
glishman in  Delhi,  my  uncle  Dr.  Balfour,  who  was  still 
walking  his  hospital  rounds,  while  the  troopers  from 
Meerut  clattered  and  cried ' '  Deen,  Deen  "  along  the  streets 
of  the  imperial  city,  and  Willoughby  mustered  his  hand- 
ful of  heroes  at  the  magazine,  and  the  nameless  brave 
one  in  the  telegraph  office  was  perhaps  already  finger- 
ing his  last  despatch;  and  just  a  little  beyond  Leven, 
Largo  Law  and  the  smoke  of  Largo  town  mounting 
about  its  feet,  the  town  of  Alexander  Selkirk,  better 
known  under  the  name  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  So  on, 
the  list  might  be  pursued  (only  for  private  reasons, 
which  the  reader  will  shortly  have  an  opportunity  to 
guess)  by  St.  Monance,  and  Pittenweem,  and  the  two 
Anstruthers,  and  Cellardyke,  and  Crail,  where  Primate 
Sharpe  was  once  a  humble  and  innocent  country  min- 
ister :  on  to  the  heel  of  the  land,  to  Fife  Ness,  overlooked 
by  a  sea  wood  of  matted  elders  and  the  quaint  old  man- 
sion of  Balcomie,  itself  overlooking  but  the  breach  or 
the  quiescence  of  the  deep  —  the  Carr  Rock  beacon  ris- 
ing close  in  front,  and  as  night  draws  in,  the  star  of  the 
Inchcape  reef  springing  up  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
star  of  the  May  Island  on  the  other,  and  farther  off  yet 
a  third  and  a  greater  on  the  craggy  foreland  of  St.  Abb's. 
And  but  a  little  way  round  the  corner  of  the  land,  im- 
minent itself  above  the  sea,  stands  the  gem  of  the 
province  and  the  light  of  mediaeval  Scotland,  St.  An- 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

drews,  where  the  great  Cardinal  Beaton  held  garrison 
against  the  world,  and  the  second  of  the  name  and  title 
perished  (as  you  may  read  in  Knox's  jeering  narrative) 
under  the  knives  of  true-blue  Protestants,  and  to  this 
day  (after  so  many  centuries)  the  current  voice  of  the 
professor  is  not  hushed. 

Here  it  was  that  my  first  tour  of  inspection  began, 
early  on  a  bleak  easterly  morning.  There  was  a  crash- 
ing run  of  sea  upon  the  shore,  1  recollect,  and  my  father 
and  the  man  of  the  harbour  light  must  sometimes  raise 
their  voices  to  be  audible.  Perhaps  it  is  from  this 
circumstance,  that  I  always  imagine  St.  Andrews  to  be 
an  ineffectual  seat  of  learning,  and  the  sound  of  the  east 
wind  and  the  bursting  surf  to  linger  in  its  drowsy  class- 
rooms and  confound  the  utterance  of  the  professor,  until 
teacher  and  taught  are  alike  drowned  in  oblivion,  and 
only  the  sea-gull  beats  on  the  windows  and  the  draught 
of  the  sea-air  rustles  in  the  pages  of  the  open  lecture. 
But  upon  all  this,  and  the  romance  of  St.  Andrews  in 
general,  the  reader  must  consult  the  works  of  Mr.  An- 
drew Lang ;  who  has  written  of  it  but  the  other  day  in 
his  dainty  prose  and  with  his  incommunicable  humour, 
and  long  ago  in  one  of  his  best  poems,  with  grace,  and 
local  truth  and  a  note  of  unaffected  pathos.  Mr.  Lang 
knows  all  about  the  romance,  1  say,  and  the  educational 
advantages,  but  I  doubt  if  he  had  turned  his  attention 
to  the  harbour  lights;  and  it  may  be  news  even  to  him, 
that  in  the  year  1863  their  case  was  pitiable.  Hanging 
about  with  the  east  wind  humming  in  my  teeth,  and 
my  hands  (1  make  no  doubt)  in  my  pockets,  I  looked 
for  the  first  time  upon  that  tragi-comedy  of  the  visiting 
engineer  which  I  have  seen  so  often  re-enacted  on  a 

213 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

more  important  stage.  Eighty  years  ago,  I  find  my 
grandfather  writing:  "It  is  the  most  painful  thing  that 
can  occur  to  me  to  have  a  correspondence  of  this  kind 
with  any  of  the  keepers,  and  when  I  come  to  the  Light 
House,  instead  of  having  the  satisfaction  to  meet  them 
with  approbation  and  welcome  their  Family,  it  is  dis- 
tressing when  one  is  obliged  to  put  on  a  most  angry 
countenance  and  demeanour."  This  painful  obligation 
has  been  hereditary  in  my  race.  I  have  myself,  on  a 
perfectly  amateur  and  unauthorised  inspection  of  Turn- 
berry  Point,  bent  my  brows  upon  the  keeper  on  the 
question  of  storm-panes ;  and  felt  a  keen  pang  of  self- 
reproach,  when  we  went  down  stairs  again  and  I  found 
he  was  making  a  coffm  for  his  infant  child;  and  then 
regained  my  equanimity  with  the  thought  that  I  had 
done  the  man  a  service,  and  when  the  proper  inspector 
came,  he  would  be  readier  with  his  panes.  The  human 
race  is  perhaps  credited  with  more  duplicity  than  it  de- 
serves. The  visitation  of  a  lighthouse  at  least  is  a  busi- 
ness of  the  most  transparent  nature.  As  soon  as  the 
boat  grates  on  the  shore,  and  the  keepers  step  forward 
in  their  uniformed  coats,  the  very  slouch  of  the  fellows' 
shoulders  tells  their  story,  and  the  engineer  may  begin 
at  once  to  assume  his  ' '  angry  countenance. "  Certainly 
the  brass  of  the  handrail  will  be  clouded;  and  if  the 
brass  be  not  immaculate,  certainly  all  will  be  to  match 
—  the  reflectors  scratched,  the  spare  lamp  unready,  the 
storm-panes  in  the  storehouse.  If  a  light  is  not  rather 
more  than  middling  good,  it  will  be  radically  bad.  Medi- 
ocrity (except  in  literature)  appears  to  be  unattainable 
by  man.  But  of  course  the  unfortunate  of  St.  Andrews 
was  only  an  amateur,  he  was  not  in  the  Service,  he  had 

ai4 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

no  uniform  coat,  he  was  (I  believe)  a  plumber  by  his 
trade  and  stood  (in  the  mediaeval  phrase)  quite  out  of 
the  danger  of  my  father;  but  he  had  a  painful  inter- 
view for  all  that,  and  perspired  extremely. 

From  St.  Andrews,  we  drove  over  Magus  Muir.  My 
father  had  announced  we  were  **to  post,"  and  the 
phrase  called  up  in  my  hopeful  mind  visions  of  top- 
boots  and  the  pictures  in  Rowlandson's  Dance  of  Death; 
but  it  was  only  a  jingling  cab  that  came  to  the  inn  door, 
such  as  I  had  driven  in  a  thousand  times  at  the  low 
price  of  one  shilling  on  the  streets  of  Edinburgh.  Be- 
yond this  disappointment,  I  remember  nothing  of  that 
drive.  It  is  a  road  I  have  often  travelled,  and  of  not 
one  of  these  journeys  do  I  remember  any  single  trait. 
The  fact  has  not  been  suffered  to  encroach  on  the 
truth  of  the  imagination.  I  still  see  Magus  Muir  two 
hundred  years  ago;  a  desert  place,  quite  uninclosed; 
in  the  midst,  the  primate's  carriage  fleeing  at  the  gallop; 
the  assassins  loose-reined  in  pursuit,  Burley  Balfour, 
pistol  in  hand,  among  the  first.  No  scene  of  history  has 
ever  written  itself  so  deeply  on  my  mind;  not  because 
Balfour,  that  questionable  zealot,  was  an  ancestral  cousin 
of  my  own ;  not  because  of  the  pleadings  of  the  victim 
and  his  daughter;  not  even  because  ofthe  live  bum-bee 
that  flew  out  of  Sharpe's  'bacco-box,  thus  clearly  indi- 
cating his  complicity  with  Satan;  nor  merely  because, 
as  it  was  after  all  a  crime  of  a  fine  religious  flavour,  it 
figured  in  Sunday  books  and  afforded  a  grateful  relief 
from  Ministering  Children  or  the  Memoirs  of  Mrs. 
Katharine  IVinslowe.  The  figure  that  always  fixed  my 
attention  is  that  of  Hackston  of  Rathillet,  sitting  in  the 
saddle  with  his  cloak  about  his  mouth,  and  through  all 

215 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

that  long,  bungling,  vociferous  hurly-burly,  revolving 
privately  a  case  of  conscience.  He  would  take  no  hand 
in  the  deed,  because  he  had  a  private  spite  against  the 
victim,  and  ''that  action  "  must  be  sullied  with  no  sug- 
gestion of  a  worldly  motive;  on  the  other  hand,  ''that 
action,"  in  itself  was  highly  justified,  he  had  cast  in  his 
lot  with  "  the  actors,"  and  he  must  stay  there,  inactive 
but  publicly  sharing  the  responsibility.  "You  are  a 
gentleman  — you  will  protect  me! "  cried  the  wounded 
old  man,  crawling  towards  him.  "Iwill  never  lay  a 
hand  on  you,"  said  Hackston,  and  put  his  cloak  about 
his  mouth.  It  is  an  old  temptation  with  me,  to  pluck 
away  that  cloak  and  see  the  face  —  to  open  that  bosom 
and  to  read  the  heart.  With  incomplete  romances 
about  Hackston,  the  drawers  of  my  youth  were  lum- 
bered. I  read  him  up  in  every  printed  book  that  I  could 
lay  my  hands  on.  I  even  dug  among  the  Wodrow 
manuscripts,  sitting  shame-faced  in  the  very  room  where 
my  hero  had  been  tortured  two  centuries  before,  and 
keenly  conscious  of  my  youth  in  the  midst  of  other  and 
(as  I  fondly  thought)  more  gifted  students.  All  was 
vain :  that  he  had  passed  a  riotous  nonage,  that  he  was 
a  zealot,  that  he  twice  displayed  (compared  with  his 
grotesque  companions)  some  tincture  of  soldierly  reso- 
lution and  even  of  military  common  sense,  and  that  he 
figured  memorably  in  the  scene  on  Magus  Muir,  so 
much  and  no  more  could  1  make  out.  But  whenever  I 
cast  my  eyes  backward,  it  is  to  see  him  like  a  landmark 
on  the  plains  of  history,  sitting  with  his  cloak  about  his 
mouth,  inscrutable.  How  small  a  thing  creates  an  im- 
mortality !  I  do  not  think  he  can  have  been  a  man  en- 
tirely commonplace ;  but  had  he  not  thrown  his  cloak 

216 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

about  his  mouth,  or  had  the  witnesses  forgot  to  chroni- 
cle the  action,  he  would  not  thus  have  haunted  the 
imagination  of  my  boyhood,  and  to-day  he  would 
scarce  delay  me  for  a  paragraph.  An  incident,  at  once 
romantic  and  dramatic,  which  at  once  awakes  the  judg- 
ment and  makes  a  picture  for  the  eye,  how  little  do  we 
realise  its  perdurable  power !  Perhaps  no  one  does  so  but 
the  author,  just  as  none  but  he  appreciates  the  influence 
of  jingling  words;  so  that  he  looks  on  upon  life,  with 
something  of  a  covert  smile,  seeing  people  led  by  what 
they  fancy  to  be  thoughts  and  what  are  really  the  ac- 
customed artifices  of  his  own  trade,  or  roused  by  what 
they  take  to  be  principles  and  are  really  picturesque  ef- 
fects. In  a  pleasant  book  about  a  school-class  club. 
Colonel  Fergusson  has  recently  told  a  little  anecdote.  A 
"Philosophical  Society"  was  formed  by  some  Acad- 
emy boys  —  among  them,  Colonel  Fergusson  himself, 
Fleeming  Jenkin,  and  Andrew  Wilson,  the  Christian 
Buddhist  and  author  of  The  Abode  of  Snow.  Before 
these  learned  pundits,  one  member  laid  the  following 
ingenious  problem:  ''What  would  be  the  result  of 
putting  a  pound  of  potassium  in  a  pot  of  porter  ?  "  ''I 
should  think  there  would  be  a  number  of  interesting 
bi-products,"  said  a  smatterer  at  my  elbow;  but  for  me 
the  tale  itself  has  a  bi-product,  and  stands  as  a  type  of 
much  that  is  most  human.  For  this  inquirer  who  con- 
ceived himself  to  burn  with  a  zeal  entirely  chemical,  was 
really  immersed  in  a  design  of  a  quite  different  nature; 
unconsciously  to  his  own  recently  breeched  intelligence, 
he  was  engaged  in  literature.  Putting,  pound,  potas- 
sium, pot,  porter;  initial  p,  mediant  t  —  that  was  his 
idea,  poor  little  boy !    So  with  politics  and  that  which 

217 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

excites  men  in  the  present,  so  with  history  and  that 
which  rouses  them  in  the  past :  there  lie  at  the  root  of 
what  appears,  most  serious  unsuspected  elements. 

The  triple  town  of  Anstruther  Wester,  Anstruther 
Easter,  and  Cellardyke,  all  three  Royal  Burghs  —  or  two 
Royal  Burghs  and  a  less  distinguished  suburb,  I  forget 
which  —  lies  continuously  along  the  seaside,  and  boasts 
of  either  two  or  three  separate  parish  churches,  and 
either  two  or  three  separate  harbours.  These  ambigui- 
ties are  painful;  but  the  fact  is  (although  it  argue  me 
uncultured),  I  am  but  poorly  posted  upon  Cellardyke. 
My  business  lay  in  the  two  Anstruthers.  A  tricklet  of 
a  stream  divides  them,  spanned  by  a  bridge;  and  over 
the  bridge  at  the  time  of  my  knowledge,  the  celebrated 
Shell  House  stood  outpost  on  the  west.  This  had  been 
the  residence  of  an  agreeable  eccentric;  during  his  fond 
tenancy,  he  had  illustrated  the  outer  walls,  as  high  (if  I 
remember  rightly)  as  the  roof,  with  elaborate  patterns 
and  pictures,  and  snatches  of  verse  in  the  vein  of  exegi 
monumentum ;  shells  and  pebbles,  artfully  contrasted 
and  conjoined,  had  been  his  medium ;  and  I  like  to  think 
of  him  standing  back  upon  the  bridge,  when  all  was 
finished,  drinking  in  the  general  effect  and  (like  Gibbon) 
already  lamenting  his  employment. 

The  same  bridge  saw  another  sight  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  Mr.  Thomson,  the  ''curat"  of  An- 
struther Easter,  was  a  man  highly  obnoxious  to  the 
devout:  in  the  first  place,  because  he  was  a  ''curat"; 
in  the  second  place,  because  he  was  a  person  of  irregular 
and  scandalous  life;  and  in  the  third  place,  because  he 
was  generally  suspected  of  dealings  with  the  Enemy  of 
Man.     These  three  disqualifications,  in  the  popular  lit- 

218 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

erature  of  the  time,  go  hand  in  hand ;  but  the  end  of 
Mr.  Thomson  was  a  thing  quite  by  itself,  and  in  the 
proper  phrase,  a  manifest  judgment.  He  had  been  at  a 
friend's  house  in  Anstruther  Wester,  where  (and  else- 
where, I  suspect,)  he  had  partaken  of  the  bottle;  in- 
deed, to  put  the  thing  in  our  cold  modern  way,  the 
reverend  gentleman  was  on  the  brink  of  delirium  tre- 
mens. It  was  a  dark  night,  it  seems;  a  little  lassie 
came  carrying  a  lantern  to  fetch  the  curate  home ;  and 
away  they  went  down  the  street  of  Anstruther  Wester, 
the  lantern  swinging  a  bit  in  the  child's  hand,  the  barred 
lustre  tossing  up  and  down  along  the  front  of  slumber- 
ing houses,  and  Mr.  Thomson  not  altogether  steady  on 
his  legs  nor  (to  all  appearance)  easy  in  his  mind.  The 
pair  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  bridge  when  (as  I 
conceive  the  scene)  the  poor  tippler  started  in  some  base- 
less fear  and  looked  behind  him;  the  child,  already 
shaken  by  the  minister's  strange  behaviour,  started  also ; 
in  so  doing,  she  would  jerk  the  lantern;  and  for  the 
space  of  a  moment  the  lights  and  the  shadows  would 
be  all  confounded.  Then  it  was  that  to  the  unhinged 
toper  and  the  twittering  child,  a  huge  bulk  of  blackness 
seemed  to  sweep  down,  to  pass  them  close  by  as  they 
stood  upon  the  bridge,  and  to  vanish  on  the  farther  side 
in  the  general  darkness  of  the  night.  ''  Plainly  the  devil 
came  for  Mr.  Thomson!"  thought  the  child.  What 
Mr.  Thomson  thought  himself,  we  have  no  ground  of 
knowledge ;  but  he  fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  midst  of 
the  bridge  like  a  man  praying.  On  the  rest  of  the  jour- 
ney to  the  manse,  history  is  silent;  but  when  they  came 
to  the  door,  the  poor  caitiff,  taking  the  lantern  from  the 
child,  looked  upon  her  with  so  lost  a  countenance  that 

219 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

her  little  courage  died  within  her,  and  she  fled  home 
screaming  to  her  parents.  Not  a  soul  would  venture 
out;  all  that  night,  the  minister  dwelt  alone  with  his 
terrors  in  the  manse;  and  when  the  day  dawned,  and 
men  made  bold  to  go  about  the  streets,  they  found  the 
devil  had  come  indeed  for  Mr.  Thomson. 

This  manse  of  Anstruther  Easter  has  another  and  a 
more  cheerful  association.  It  was  early  in  the  morning, 
about  a  century  before  the  days  of  Mr.  Thomson,  that 
his  predecessor  was  called  out  of  bed  to  welcome  a 
Grandee  of  Spain,  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia,  just 
landed  in  the  harbour  underneath.  But  sure  there  was 
never  seen  a  more  decayed  grandee;  sure  there  was 
never  a  duke  welcomed  from  a  stranger  place  of  exile. 
Half-way  between  Orkney  and  Shetland,  there  lies  a  cer- 
tain isle;  on  the  one  hand  the  Atlantic,  on  the  other 
the  North  Sea,  bombard  its  pillared  cliffs;  sore-eyed, 
short-living,  inbred  fishers  and  their  families  herd  in  its 
few  huts ;  in  the  graveyard  pieces  of  wreck-wood  stand 
for  monuments ;  there  is  nowhere  a  more  inhospitable 
spot.  Belle- Isle-en-Mer — Fair-Isle-at-Sea  —  that  is  a 
name  that  has  always  rung  in  my  mind's  ear  like  music; 
but  the  only  ''Fair  Isle"  on  which  I  ever  set  my  foot, 
was  this  unhomely,  rugged  turret-top  of  submarine 
sierras.  Here,  when  his  ship  was  broken,  my  lord  Duke 
joyfully  got  ashore;  here  for  long  months  he  and  cer- 
tain of  his  men  were  harboured ;  and  it  was  from  this 
durance  that  he  landed  at  last  to  be  welcomed  (as  well 
as  such  a  papist  deserved,  no  doubt)  by  the  godly  in- 
cumbent of  Anstruther  Easter ;  and  after  the  Fair  Isle, 
what  a  fine  city  must  that  have  appeared !  and  after  the 
island  diet,  what  a  hospitable  spot  the  minister's  table! 

220 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

And  yet  he  must  have  lived  on  friendly  terms  with  his 
outlandish  hosts.  For  to  this  day  there  still  survives  a 
relic  of  the  long  winter  evenings  when  the  sailors  of  the 
great  Armada  crouched  about  the  hearths  of  the  Fair- 
Islanders,  the  planks  of  their  own  lost  galleon  perhaps 
lighting  up  the  scene,  and  the  gale  and  the  surf  that  beat 
about  the  coast  contributing  their  melancholy  voices. 
All  the  folk  of  the  north  isles  are  great  artificers  of  knit- 
ting: the  Fair-Islanders  alone  dye  their  fabrics  in  the 
Spanish  manner.  To  this  day,  gloves  and  nightcaps, 
innocently  decorated,  may  be  seen  for  sale  in  the  Shet- 
land warehouse  at  Edinburgh,  or  on  the  Fair  Isle  itself 
in  the  catechist's  house ;  and  to  this  day,  they  tell  the 
story  of  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia's  adventure. 

It  would  seem  as  if  the  Fair  Isle  had  some  attraction 
for  *' persons  of  quality."  When  I  landed  there  myself, 
an  elderly  gentleman,  unshaved,  poorly  attired,  his 
shoulders  wrapped  in  a  plaid,  was  seen  walking  to  and 
fro,  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  upon  the  beach.  He  paid 
no  heed  to  our  arrival,  which  we  thought  a  strange  thing 
in  itself;  but  when  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Pharos, 
passing  narrowly  by  him,  observed  his  book  to  be  a 
Greek  Testament,  our  wonder  and  interest  took  a  higher 
flight.  The  catechist  was  cross-examined ;  he  said  the 
gentleman  had  been  put  across  some  time  before  in  Mr. 
Bruce  of  Sumburgh's  schooner,  the  only  link  between 
the  Fair  Isle  and  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  that  he  held 
services  and  was  doing  "  good."  So  much  came  glibly 
enough ;  but  when  pressed  a  little  farther,  the  catechist 
displayed  embarrassment.  A  singular  diffidence  ap- 
peared upon  his  face:  ''They  tell  me,"  said  he,  in  low 
tones,  ''that  he's  a  lord."     And  a  lord  he  was;  a  peer 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

of  the  realm  pacing  that  inhospitable  beach  with  his 
Greek  Testament,  and  his  plaid  about  his  shoulders,  set 
upon  doing  good,  as  he  understood  it,  worthy  man! 
And  his  grandson,  a  good-looking  little  boy,  much  bet- 
ter dressed  than  the  lordly  evangelist,  and  speaking  with 
a  silken  English  accent  very  foreign  to  the  scene,  accom- 
panied me  for  a  while  in  my  exploration  of  the  island. 
I  suppose  this  little  fellow  is  now  my  lord,  and  wonder 
how  much  he  remembers  of  the  Fair  Isle.  Perhaps  not 
much ;  for  he  seemed  to  accept  very  quietly  his  savage 
situation ;  and  under  such  guidance,  it  is  like  that  this 
was  not  his  first  nor  yet  his  last  adventure. 


222 


VI.    RANDOM   MEMORIES 

II.    THE   EDUCATION   OF   AN   ENGINEER 

Anstruther  is  a  place  sacred  to  the  Muse;  she  in- 
spired (really  to  a  considerable  extent)  Tennant's  ver- 
nacular poem  Anst'er  Fair;  and  I  have  there  waited 
upon  her  myself  with  much  devotion.  This  was  when 
I  came  as  a  young  man  to  glean  engineering  experience 
from  the  building  of  the  breakwater.  What  I  gleaned, 
I  am  sure  I  do  not  know ;  but  indeed  I  had  already  my 
own  private  determination  to  be  an  author ;  I  loved  the 
art  of  words  and  the  appearances  of  life ;  and  travellers, 
and  headers,  and  rubble,  and  polished  ashlar,  and  pierrcs 
per  dues,  and  even  the  thrilling  question  of  the  string- 
course, interested  me  only  (if  they  interested  me  at  all) 
as  properties  for  some  possible  romance  or  as  words  to 
add  to  my  vocabulary.  To  grow  a  little  catholic  is  the 
compensation  of  years;  youth  is  one-eyed ;  and  in  those 
days,  though  I  haunted  the  breakwater  by  day,  and 
even  loved  the  place  for  the  sake  of  the  sunshine,  the 
thrilling  seaside  air,  the  wash  of  waves  on  the  sea-face, 
the  green  glimmer  of  the  divers'  helmets  far  below,  and 
the  musical  chinking  of  the  masons,  my  one  genuine 
preoccupation  lay  elsewhere,  and  my  only  industry  was 
in  the  hours  when  I  was  not  on  duty.  I  lodged  with 
a  certain  Bailie  Brown,  a  carpenter  by  trade ;  and  there, 

223 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

as  soon  as  dinner  was  despatched,  in  a  chamber  scented 
with  dry  rose-leaves,  drew  in  my  chair  to  the  table  and 
proceeded  to  pour  forth  literature,  at  such  a  speed,  and 
with  such  intimations  of  early  death  and  immortality,  as 
I  now  look  back  upon  with  wonder.  Then  it  was  that 
I  wrote  yoces  Fidelium,  a  series  of  dramatic  monologues 
in  verse ;  then  that  I  indited  the  bulk  of  a  covenanting 
novel  —  like  so  many  others,  never  finished.  Late  I  sat 
into  the  night,  toiling  (as  I  thought)  under  the  very  dart 
of  death,  toiling  to  leave  a  memory  behind  me.  1  fee! 
moved  to  thrust  aside  the  curtain  of  the  years,  to  hail 
that  poor  feverish  idiot,  to  bid  him  go  to  bed  and  clap 
Voces  Fidelium  on  the  fire  before  he  goes ;  so  clear  does 
he  appear  before  me,  sitting  there  between  his  candles 
in  the  rose-scented  room  and  the  late  night;  so  ridiculous 
a  picture  (to  my  elderly  wisdom)  does  the  fool  present! 
But  he  was  driven  to  his  bed  at  last  without  miraculous 
intervention;  and  the  manner  of  his  driving  sets  the 
last  touch  upon  this  eminently  youthful  business.  The 
weather  was  then  so  warm  that  I  must  keep  the  win- 
dows open ;  the  night  without  was  populous  with  moths. 
As  the  late  darkness  deepened,  my  literary  tapers  bea- 
coned forth  more  brightly ;  thicker  and  thicker  came  the 
dusty  night-fliers,  to  gyrate  for  one  brilliant  instant  round 
the  flame  and  fall  in  agonies  upon  my  paper.  Flesh  and 
blood  could  not  endure  the  spectacle ;  to  capture  immor- 
tality was  doubtless  a  noble  enterprise,  but  not  to  cap- 
ture it  at  such  a  cost  of  suffering;  and  out  would  go  the 
candles,  and  off  would  I  go  to  bed  in  the  darkness,  rag- 
ing to  think  that  the  blow  might  fall  on  the  morrow, 
and  there  was  Voces  Fidelium  still  incomplete.  Well, 
the  moths  are  all  gone,  and  Voces  Fidelium  along  with 

224 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

them ;  only  the  fool  is  still  on  hand  and  practises  new 
follies. 

Only  one  thing  in  connection  with  the  harbour  tempted 
me,  and  that  was  the  diving,  an  experience  I  burned  to 
taste  of.  But  this  was  not  to  be,  at  least  in  Anstruther ; 
and  the  subject  involves  a  change  of  scene  to  the  sub- 
arctic town  of  Wick.  You  can  never  have  dwelt  in  a 
country  more  unsightly  than  that  part  of  Caithness,  the 
land  faintly  swelling,  faintly  falling,  not  a  tree,  not  a 
hedgerow,  the  fields  divided  by  single  slate  stones  set 
upon  their  edge,  the  wind  always  singing  in  your  ears 
and  (down  the  long  road  that  led  nowhere)  thrumming 
in  the  telegraph  wires.  Only  as  you  approached  the 
coast  was  there  anything  to  stir  the  heart.  The  plateau 
broke  down  to  the  North  Sea  in  formidable  cliffs,  the 
tall  out-stacks  rose  like  pillars  ringed  about  with  surf, 
the  coves  were  over-brimmed  with  clamorous  froth,  the 
sea-birds  screamed,  the  wind  sang  in  the  thyme  on  the 
cliff's  edge ;  here  and  there,  small  ancient  castles  toppled 
on  the  brim ;  here  and  there,  it  was  possible  to  dip  into 
a  dell  of  shelter,  where  you  might  lie  and  tell  yourself 
you  were  a  little  warm,  and  hear  (near  at  hand)  the 
whin-pods  bursting  in  the  afternoon  sun,  and  (farther 
off)  the  rumour  of  the  turbulent  sea.  As  for  Wick  it- 
self, it  is  one  of  the  meanest  of  man's  towns,  and  situate 
certainly  on  the  baldest  of  God's  bays.  It  lives  for  her- 
ring, and  a  strange  sight  it  is  to  see  (of  an  afternoon) 
the  heights  of  Pulteney  blackened  by  seaward-looking 
fishers,  as  when  a  city  crowds  to  a  review  —  or,  as 
when  bees  have  swarmed,  the  ground  is  horrible  with 
lumps  and  clusters ;  and  a  strange  sight,  and  a  beautiful, 
to  see  the  fleet  put  silently  out  against  a  rising  moon, 

225 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

the  sea-line  rough  as  a  wood  with  sails,  and  ever  and 
again  and  one  after  another,  a  boat  flitting  swiftly  by  the 
silver  disk.  This  mass  of  fishers,  this  great  fleet  of  boats, 
is  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  town  itself;  and  the  oars 
are  manned  and  the  nets  hauled  by  immigrants  from  the 
Long  Island  (as  we  call  the  outer  Hebrides),  who  come 
for  that  season  only,  and  depart  again,  if  ''the  take"  be 
poor,  leaving  debts  behind  them.  In  a  bad  year,  the 
end  of  the  herring  fishery  is  therefore  an  exciting  time; 
fights  are  common,  riots  often  possible ;  an  apple  knocked 
from  a  child's  hand  was  once  the  signal  for  something 
like  a  war;  and  even  when  I  was  there,  a  gunboat  lay 
in  the  bay  to  assist  the  authorities.  To  contrary  inter- 
ests, it  should  be  observed,  the  curse  of  Babel  is  here 
added ;  the  Lews  men  are  Gaelic  speakers.  Caithness 
has  adopted  English ;  an  odd  circumstance,  if  you  reflect 
that  both  must  be  largely  Norsemen  by  descent.  I  re- 
member seeing  one  of  the  strongest  instances  of  this 
division:  a  thing  like  a  Punch-and-Judy  box  erected  on 
the  flat  grave-stones  of  the  churchyard ;  from  the  hutch 
or  proscenium — I  know  not  what  to  call  it — an  eldritch- 
looking  preacher  laying  down  the  law  in  Gaelic  about 
some  one  of  the  name  of  Fowl,  whom  I  at  last  divined 
to  be  the  apostle  to  the  Gentiles ;  a  large  congregation 
of  the  Lews  men  very  devoutly  listening;  and  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd,  some  of  the  town's  children  (to 
whom  the  whole  affair  was  Greek  and  Hebrew)  pro- 
fanely playing  tigg.  The  same  descent,  the  same  coun- 
try, the  same  narrow  sect  of  the  same  religion,  and  all 
these  bonds  made  very  largely  nugatory  by  an  acci- 
dental difference  of  dialect ! 
Into  the  bay  of  Wick  stretched  the  dark  length  of  the 

226 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

unfinished  breakwater,  in  its  cage  of  open  staging;  the 
travellers  (like  frames  of  churches)  over-plumbing  all; 
and  away  at  the  extreme  end,  the  divers  toiling  unseen 
on  the  foundation.  On  a  platform  of  loose  planks,  the 
assistants  turned  their  air-mills ;  a  stone  might  be  swing- 
ing between  wind  and  water ;  underneath  the  swell  ran 
gaily ;  and  from  time  to  time,  a  mailed  dragon  with  a 
window-glass  snout  came  dripping  up  the  ladder. 
Youth  is  a  blessed  season  after  all ;  my  stay  at  Wick  was 
in  the  year  of  l^oces  Fidelium  and  the  rose-leaf  room  at 
Bailie  Brown's ;  and  already  I  did  not  care  two  straws 
for  literary  glory.  Posthumous  ambition  perhaps  re- 
quires an  atmosphere  of  roses ;  and  the  more  rugged 
excitant  of  Wick  east  winds  had  made  another  boy  of 
me.  To  go  down  in  the  diving-dress,  that  was  my  ab- 
sorbing fancy;  and  with  the  countenance  of  a  certain 
handsome  scamp  of  a  diver,  Bob  Bain  by  name,  I  grat- 
ified the  whim. 

It  was  gray,  harsh,  easterly  weather,  the  swell  ran 
pretty  high,  and  out  in  the  open  there  were  ''skipper's 
daughters,"  when  I  found  myself  at  last  on  the  diver's 
platform,  twenty  pounds  of  lead  upon  each  foot  and  my 
whole  person  swollen  with  ply  and  ply  of  woollen  un- 
derclothing. One  moment,  the  salt  wind  was  whistling 
round  my  night-capped  head;  the  next,  I  was  crushed 
almost  double  under  the  weight  of  the  helmet.  As  that 
intolerable  burthen  was  laid  upon  me,  I  could  have  found 
it  in  my  heart  (only  for  shame's  sake)  to  cry  off  from  the 
whole  enterprise.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  attendants 
began  to  turn  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and  the  air  to  whistle 
through  the  tube ;  some  one  screwed  in  the  barred  win- 
dow of  the  vizor ;  and  I  was  cut  off  in  a  moment  from  my 

227 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

fellow-men ;  standing  there  in  their  midst,  but  quite  di- 
vorced from  intercourse :  a  creature  deaf  and  dumb,  pa- 
thetically looking  forth  upon  them  from  a  climate  of  his 
own.  Except  that  I  could  move  and  feel,  I  was  like  a 
man  fallen  in  a  catalepsy.  But  time  was  scarce  given 
me  to  realise  my  isolation ;  the  weights  were  hung  upon 
my  back  and  breast,  the  signal  rope  was  thrust  into  my 
unresisting  hand ;  and  setting  a  twenty-pound  foot  upon 
the  ladder,  I  began  ponderously  to  descend. 

Some  twenty  rounds  below  the  platform,  twilight 
fell.  Looking  up,  I  saw  a  low  green  heaven  mottled 
with  vanishing  bells  of  white ;  looking  around,  except 
for  the  weedy  spokes  and  shafts  of  the  ladder,  nothing 
but  a  green  gloaming,  somewhat  opaque  but  very  rest- 
ful and  delicious.  Thirty  rounds  lower,  I  stepped  off  on 
the  pierre^  per  dues  of  the  foundation ;  a  dumb  helmeted 
figure  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  made  a  gesture  (as  I 
read  it)  of  encouragement;  and  looking  in  at  the  crea- 
ture's window,  I  beheld  the  face  of  Bain.  There  we 
were,  hand  to  hand  and  (when  it  pleased  us)  eye  to  eye ; 
and  either  might  have  burst  himself  with  shouting,  and 
not  a  whisper  come  to  his  companion's  hearing.  Each, 
in  his  own  little  world  of  air,  stood  incommunicably 
separate. 

Bob  had  told  me  ere  this  a  little  tale,  a  five  minutes' 
drama  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  which  at  that  moment 
possibly  shot  across  my  mind.  He  was  down  with  an- 
other, settling  a  stone  of  the  sea-wall.  They  had  it  well 
adjusted,  Bob  gave  the  signal,  the  scissors  were  slipped, 
the  stone  set  home;  and  it  was  time  to  turn  to  some- 
thing else.  But  still  his  companion  remained  bowed 
over  the  block  like  a  mourner  on  a  tomb,  or  only  raised 

228 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

himself  to  make  absurd  contortions  and  mysterious 
signs  unknown  to  the  vocabulary  of  the  diver.  There, 
then,  these  two  stood  for  awhile,  like  the  dead  and  the 
living;  till  there  flashed  a  fortunate  thought  into  Bob's 
mind,  and  he  stooped,  peered  through  the  window  of 
that  other  world,  and  beheld  the  face  of  its  inhabitant 
wet  with  streaming  tears.  Ah !  the  man  was  in  pain ! 
And  Bob,  glancing  downward,  saw  what  was  the  trou- 
ble :  the  block  had  been  lowered  on  the  foot  of  that  un- 
fortunate —  he  was  caught  alive  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
under  fifteen  tons  of  rock. 

That  two  men  should  handle  a  stone  so  heavy,  even 
swinging  in  the  scissors,  may  appear  strange  to  the  in- 
expert. These  must  bear  in  mind  the  great  density  of 
the  water  of  the  sea,  and  the  surprising  results  of  trans- 
plantation to  that  medium.  To  understand  a  little  what 
these  are,  and  how  a  man's  weight,  so  far  from  being  an 
encumbrance,  is  the  very  ground  of  his  agility,  was  the 
chief  lesson  of  my  submarine  experience.  The  know- 
ledge came  upon  me  by  degrees.  As  I  began  to  go 
forward  with  the  hand  of  my  estranged  companion,  a 
world  of  tumbled  stones  was  visible,  pillared  with  the 
weedy  uprights  of  the  staging :  overhead,  a  flat  roof  of 
green :  a  little  in  front,  the  sea-wall,  like  an  unfinished 
rampart.  And  presently  in  our  upward  progress.  Bob 
motioned  me  to  leap  upon  a  stone;  I  looked  to  see  if 
he  were  possibly  in  earnest,  and  he  only  signed  to  me 
the  more  imperiously.  Now  the  block  stood  six  feet 
high ;  it  would  have  been  quite  a  leap  to  me  unencum- 
bered ;  with  the  breast  and  back  weights,  and  the  twenty 
pounds  upon  each  foot,  and  the  staggering  load  of  the 
helmet,  the  thing  was  out  of  reason.     I  laughed  aloud 

229 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

in  my  tomb ;  and  to  prove  to  Bob  how  far  he  was  astray, 
I  gave  a  little  impulse  from  my  toes.  Up  I  soared  like 
a  bird,  my  companion  soaring  at  my  side.  As  high  as 
to  the  stone,  and  then  higher,  I  pursued  my  impotent 
and  empty  flight.  Even  when  the  strong  arm  of  Bob 
had  checked  my  shoulders,  my  heels  continued  their 
ascent;  so  that  I  blew  out  sideways  like  an  autumn 
leaf,  and  must  be  hauled  in,  hand  over  hand,  as  sailors 
haul  in  the  slack  of  a  sail,  and  propped  upon  my  feet 
again  like  an  intoxicated  sparrow.  Yet  a  little  higher 
on  the  foundation,  and  we  began  to  be  affected  by  the 
bottom  of  the  swell,  running  there  like  a  strong  breeze 
of  wind.  Or  so  I  must  suppose ;  for,  safe  in  my  cushion 
of  air,  I  was  conscious  of  no  impact;  only  swayed  idly 
like  a  weed,  and  was  now  borne  helplessly  abroad,  and 
now  swiftly  —  and  yet  with  dream-like  gentleness  — 
impelled  against  my  guide.  So  does  a  child's  balloon 
divagate  upon  the  currents  of  the  air,  and  touch  and 
slide  off  again  from  every  obstacle.  So  must  have  in- 
effectually swung,  so  resented  their  inefficiency,  those 
light  crowds  that  followed  the  Star  of  Hades,  and  uttered 
exiguous  voices  in  the  land  beyond  Cocytus. 

There  was  something  strangely  exasperating,  as  well 
as  strangely  wearying,  in  these  uncommanded  evolu- 
tions. It  is  bitter  to  return  to  infancy,  to  be  supported, 
and  directed,  and  perpetually  set  upon  your  feet,  by  the 
hand  of  someone  else.  The  air  besides,  as  it  is  supplied 
to  you  by  the  busy  millers  on  the  platform,  closes  the 
eustachian  tubes  and  keeps  the  neophyte  perpetually 
swallowing,  till  his  throat  is  grown  so  dry  that  he  can 
swallow  no  longer.  And  for  all  these  reasons — although 
I  had  a  fine,  dizzy,  muddle-headed  joy  in  my  surround- 

230 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ings,  and  longed,  and  tried,  and  always  failed,  to  lay 
hands  on  the  fish  that  darted  here  and  there  about  me, 
swift  as  humming-birds — yet  I  fancy  I  was  rather  re- 
lieved than  otherwise  when  Bain  brought  me  back  to 
the  ladder  and  signed  to  me  to  mount.  And  there  was 
one  more  experience  before  me  even  then.  Of  a  sud- 
den, my  ascending  head  passed  into  the  trough  of  a 
swell.  Out  of  the  green,  I  shot  at  once  into  a  glory  of 
rosy,  almost  of  sanguine  light — the  multitudinous  seas 
incarnadined,  the  heaven  above  a  vault  of  crimson. 
And  then  the  glory  faded  into  the  hard,  ugly  daylight 
of  a  Caithness  autumn,  with  a  low  sky,  a  gray  sea,  and 
a  whistling  wind. 

Bob  Bain  had  five  shillings  for  his  trouble,  and  I  had 
done  what  I  desired.  It  was  one  of  the  best  things  I 
got  from  my  education  as  an  engineer:  of  which  how- 
ever, as  a  way  of  life,  I  wish  to  speak  with  sympathy. 
It  takes  a  man  into  the  open  air;  it  keeps  him  hanging 
about  harbour-sides,  which  is  the  richest  form  of  idling ; 
it  carries  him  to  wild  islands ;  it  gives  him  a  taste  of  the 
genial  dangers  of  the  sea ;  it  supplies  him  with  dexteri- 
ties to  exercise;  it  makes  demands  upon  his  ingenuity; 
it  will  go  far  to  cure  him  of  any  taste  (if  ever  he  had 
one)  for  the  miserable  life  of  cities.  And  when  it  has 
done  so,  it  carries  him  back  and  shuts  him  in  an  office! 
From  the  roaring  skerry  and  the  wet  thwart  of  the 
tossing  boat,  he  passes  to  the  stool  and  desk;  and  with 
a  memory  full  of  ships,  and  seas,  and  perilous  head- 
lands, and  the  shining  pharos,  he  must  apply  his  long- 
sighted eyes  to  the  petty  niceties  of  drawing,  or  measure 
his  inaccurate  mind  with  several  pages  of  consecutive 
figures.     He  is  a  wise  youth,  to  be  sure,  who  can  bal- 

231 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

ance  one  part  of  genuine  life  against  two  parts  of  drudg- 
ery between  four  walls,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  one, 
manfully  accept  the  other. 

Wick  was  scarce  an  eligible  place  of  stay.  But  how 
much  better  it  was  to  hang  in  the  cold  wind  upon  the 
pier,  to  go  down  with  Bob  Bain  among  the  roots  of  the 
staging,  to  be  all  day  in  a  boat  coiling  a  wet  rope  and 
shouting  orders  —  not  always  very  wise — than  to  be 
warm  and  dry,  and  dull,  and  dead-alive,  in  the  most 
comfortable  office.  And  Wick  itself  had  in  those  days 
a  note  of  originality.  It  may  have  still,  but  I  misdoubt 
it  much.  The  old  minister  of  Keiss  would  not  preach, 
in  these  degenerate  times,  for  an  hour  and  a  half  upon 
the  clock.  The  gipsies  must  be  gone  from  their  caverns ; 
where  you  might  see,  from  the  mouth,  the  women  tend- 
ing their  fire,  like  Meg  Merrilies,  and  the  men  sleeping 
off  their  coarse  potations ;  and  where  in  winter  gales, 
the  surf  would  beleaguer  them  closely,  bursting  in  their 
very  door.  A  traveller  to-day  upon  the  Thurso  coach 
would  scarce  observe  a  little  cloud  of  smoke  among  the 
moorlands,  and  be  told,  quite  openly,  it  marked  a  pri- 
vate still.  He  would  not  indeed  make  that  journey,  for 
there  is  now  no  Thurso  coach.  And  even  if  he  could, 
one  little  thing  that  happened  to  me  could  never  happen 
to  him,  or  not  witj)  the  same  trenchancy  of  contrast. 

We  had  been  upon  the  road  all  evening;  the  coach- 
top  was  crowded  with  Lews  fishers  going  home,  scarce 
anything  but  Gaelic  had  sounded  in  my  ears ;  and  our 
way  had  lain  throughout  over  a  moorish  country  very 
northern  to  behold.  Latish  at  night,  though  it  was 
still  broad  day  in  our  subarctic  latitude,  we  came  down 
upon  the  shores  of  the  roaring  Pentland  Firth,   that 

232 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

grave  of  mariners;  on  one  hand,  the  cliffs  of  Dunnet 
Head  ran  seaward ;  in  front  was  the  little  bare,  white 
town  of  Castleton,  its  streets  full  of  blowing  sand; 
nothing  beyond,  but  the  North  Islands,  the  great  deep, 
and  the  perennial  ice-fields  of  the  Pole.  And  here,  in 
the  last  imaginable  place,  there  sprang  up  young  out- 
landish voices  and  a  chatter  of  some  foreign  speech ; 
and  I  saw,  pursuing  the  coach  with  its  load  of  Hebrid- 
ean  fishers — as  they  had  pursued  vetturmt  up  the  passes 
of  the  Apennines  or  perhaps  along  the  grotto  under 
Virgil's  tomb  —  two  little  dark-eyed,  white-toothed 
Italian  vagabonds,  of  twelve  to  fourteen  years  of  age, 
one  with  a  hurdy-gurdy,  the  other  with  a  cage  of  white 
mice.  The  coach  passed  on,  and  their  small  Italian 
chatter  died  in  the  distance;  and  I  was  left  to  marvel 
how  they  had  wandered  into  that  country,  and  how 
they  fared  in  it,  and  what  they  thought  of  it,  and  when 
(if  ever)  they  should  see  again  the  silver  wind-breaks 
run  among  the  olives,  and  the  stone-pine  stand  guard 
upon  Etruscan  sepulchres. 

Upon  any  American,  the  strangeness  of  this  incident 
is  somewhat  lost.  For  as  far  back  as  he  goes  in  his 
own  land,  he  will  find  some  alien  camping  there;  the 
Cornish  miner,  the  French  or  Mexican  half-blood,  the 
negro  in  the  South,  these  are  deep  in  the  woods  and  far 
among  the  mountains.  But  in  an  old,  cold,  and  rugged 
country  such  as  mine,  the  days  of  immigration  are  long 
at  an  end ;  and  away  up  there,  which  was  at  that  time 
far  beyond  the  northernmost  extreme  of  railways,  hard 
upon  the  shore  of  that  ill-omened  strait  of  whirlpools, 
in  a  land  of  moors  where  no  stranger  came,  unless  it 
should  be  a  sportsman  to  shoot  grouse  or  an  antiquary 

233 


RANDOM   MEMORIES 

to  decipher  runes,  the  presence  of  these  small  pedes- 
trians struck  the  mind  as  though  a  bird-of-paradise  had 
risen  from  the  heather  or  an  albatross  come  fishing  in 
the  bay  of  Wick.  They  were  as  strange  to  their  sur- 
roundings as  my  lordly  evangelist  or  the  old  Spanish 
grandee  on  the  Fair  Isle. 


534 


VII.   THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 


These  boys  congregated  every  autumn  about  a  certain 
easterly  fisher-village,  where  they  tasted  in  a  high  de- 
gree the  glory  of  existence.  The  place  was  created 
seemingly  on  purpose  for  the  diversion  of  young  gen- 
tlemen. A  street  or  two  of  houses,  mostly  red  and 
many  of  them  tiled ;  a  number  of  fine  trees  clustered 
about  the  manse  and  the  kirkyard,  and  turning  the  chief 
street  into  a  shady  alley ;  many  little  gardens  more  than 
usually  bright  with  flowers ;  nets  a-drying,  and  fisher- 
wives  scolding  in  the  backward  parts ;  a  smell  of  fish, 
a  genial  smell  of  seaweed;  whiffs  of  blowing  sand  at 
the  street-corners;  shops  with  golf-balls  and  bottled 
lollipops ;  another  shop  with  penny  pickwicks  (that  re- 
markable cigar)  and  the  London  Journal,  dear  to  me  for 
its  startling  pictures,  and  a  few  novels,  dear  for  their 
suggestive  names :  such,  as  well  as  memory  serves  me, 
were  the  ingredients  of  the  town.  These,  you  are  to 
conceive  posted  on  a  spit  between  two  sandy  bays,  and 
sparsely  flanked  with  villas  —  enough  for  the  boys  to 
lodge  in  with  their  subsidiary  parents,  not  enough  (not 
yet  enough)  to  cocknify  the  scene :  a  haven  in  the  rocks 
in  front :  in  front  of  that,  a  file  of  gray  islets :  to  the  left, 
endless  links  and  sand  wreaths,  a  wilderness  of  hiding- 

235 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

holes,  alive  with  popping  rabbits  and  soaring  gulls :  to 
the  right,  a  range  of  seaward  crags,  one  rugged  brow 
beyond  another;  the  ruins  of  a  mighty  and  ancient 
fortress  on  the  brink  of  one;  coves  between  —  now 
charmed  into  sunshine  quiet,  now  whistling  with  wind 
and  clamorous  with  bursting  surges;  the  dens  and 
sheltered  hollows  redolent  of  thyme  and  southernwood, 
the  air  at  the  cliff's  edge  brisk  and  clean  and  pungent  of 
the  sea  —  in  front  of  all,  the  Bass  Rock,  tilted  seaward 
like  a  doubtful  bather,  the  surf  ringing  it  with  white, 
the  solan-geese  hanging  round  its  summit  like  a  great 
and  glittering  smoke.  This  choice  piece  of  seaboard 
was  sacred,  besides,  to  the  wrecker;  and  the  Bass,  in 
the  eye  of  fancy,  still  flew  the  colours  of  King  James ; 
and  in  the  ear  of  fancy  the  arches  of  Tantallon  still  rang 
with  horseshoe  iron,  and  echoed  to  the  commands  of 
Bell-the-Cat. 

There  was  nothing  to  mar  your  days,  if  you  were  a 
boy  summering  in  that  part,  but  the  embarrassment  of 
pleasure.  You  might  golf  if  you  wanted ;  but  1  seem 
to  have  been  better  employed.  You  might  secrete  your- 
self in  the  Lady's  Walk,  a  certain  sunless  dingle  of  el- 
ders, all  mossed  over  by  the  damp  as  green  as  grass, 
and  dotted  here  and  there  by  the  streamside  with  roof- 
less walls,  the  cold  homes  of  anchorites.  To  fit  them- 
selves for  life,  and  with  a  special  eye  to  acquire  the  art 
of  smoking,  it  was  even  common  for  the  boys  to  har- 
bour there;  and  you  might  have  seen  a  single  penny 
pickwick,  honestly  shared  in  lengths  with  a  blunt  knife, 
bestrew  the  glen  with  these  apprentices.  Again,  you 
might  join  our  fishing  parties,  where  we  sat  perched  as 
thick  as  solan-geese,  a  covey  of  little  anglers,  boy  and 

236 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

girl,  angling  over  each  other's  heads,  to  the  much  entan- 
glement of  lines  and  loss  of  podleys  and  consequent  shrill 
recrimination  —  shrill  as  the  geese  themselves.  Indeed, 
had  that  been  all,  you  might  have  done  this  often ;  but 
though  fishing  be  a  fine  pastime,  the  podley  is  scarce 
to  be  regarded  as  a  dainty  for  the  table;  and  it  was  a 
point  of  honour  that  a  boy  should  eat  all  that  he  had 
taken.  Or  again,  you  might  climb  the  Law,  where  the 
whale's  jawbone  stood  landmark  in  the  buzzing  wind, 
and  behold  the  face  of  many  counties,  and  the  smoke 
and  spires  of  many  towns,  and  the  sails  of  distant  ships. 
You  might  bathe,  now  in  the  flaws  of  fine  weather, 
that  we  pathetically  call  our  summer,  now  in  a  gale  of 
wind,  with  the  sand  scourging  your  bare  hide,  your 
clothes  thrashing  abroad  from  underneath  their  guar- 
dian stone,  the  froth  of  the  great  breakers  casting  you 
headlong  ere  it  had  drowned  your  knees.  Or  you  might 
explore  the  tidal  rocks,  above  all  in  the  ebb  of  springs, 
when  the  very  roots  of  the  hills  were  for  the  nonce 
discovered;  following  my  leader  from  one  group  to 
another,  groping  in  slippery  tangle  for  the  wreck  of 
ships,  wading  in  pools  after  the  abominable  creatures  of 
the  sea,  and  ever  with  an  eye  cast  backward  on  the 
march  of  the  tide  and  the  menaced  line  of  your  retreat. 
And  then  you  might  go  Crusoeing,  a  word  that  covers 
all  extempore  eating  in  the  open  air:  digging  perhaps  a 
house  under  the  margin  of  the  links,  kindling  a  fire  of 
the  sea-ware,  and  cooking  apples  there  —  if  they  were 
truly  apples,  for  I  sometimes  suppose  the  merchant  must 
have  played  us  off  with  some  inferior  and  quite  local 
fruit,  capable  of  resolving,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
fire,  into  mere  sand  and  smoke  and  iodine;  or  per- 

237 


THE   LANTERN-BEARERS 

haps  pushing  to  Tantallon,  you  might  lunch  on  sand- 
wiches and  visions  in  the  grassy  court,  while  the  wind 
hummed  in  the  crumbling  turrets ;  or  clambering  along 
the  coast,  eat  geans^  (the  worst,  I  must  suppose,  in 
Christendom)  from  an  adventurous  gean  tree  that  had 
taken  root  under  a  cliff,  where  it  was  shaken  with  an 
ague  of  east  wind,  and  silvered  after  gales  with  salt, 
and  grew  so  foreign  among  its  bleak  surroundings  that 
to  eat  of  its  produce  was  an  adventure  in  itself. 

There  are  mingled  some  dismal  memories  with  so 
many  that  were  joyous.  Of  the  fisher- wife,  for  instance, 
who  had  cut  her  throat  at  Canty  Bay ;  and  of  how  I  ran 
with  the  other  children  to  the  top  of  the  Quadrant,  and 
beheld  a  posse  of  silent  people  escorting  a  cart,  and  on 
the  cart,  bound  in  a  chair,  her  throat  bandaged,  and  the 
bandage  all  bloody  —  horror!  —  the  fisher-wife  herself, 
who  continued  thenceforth  to  hag-ride  my  thoughts, 
and  even  to-day  (as  I  recall  the  scene)  darkens  daylight. 
She  was  lodged  in  the  little  old  jail  in  the  chief  street; 
but  whether  or  no  she  died  there,  with  a  wise  terror  of 
the  worst,  I  never  inquired.  She  had  been  tippling;  it 
was  but  a  dingy  tragedy ;  and  it  seems  strange  and  hard 
that,  after  all  these  years,  the  poor  crazy  sinner  should 
be  still  pilloried  on  her  cart  in  the  scrap-book  of  my 
memory.  Nor  shall  I  readily  forget  a  certain  house  in 
the  Quadrant  where  a  visitor  died,  and  a  dark  old  wo- 
man continued  to  dwell  alone  with  the  dead  body;  nor 
how  this  old  woman  conceived  a  hatred  to  myself  and 
one  of  my  cousins,  and  in  the  dread  hour  of  the  dusk, 
as  we  were  clambering  on  the  garden-walls,  opened  a 
window  in  that  house  of  mortality  and  cursed  us  in  ^ 

1  Wild  cherries. 
238 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

shrill  voice  and  with  a  marrowy  choice  of  language.  It 
was  a  pair  of  very  colourless  urchins  that  fled  down  the 
lane  from  this  remarkable  experience !  But  I  recall  with 
a  more  doubtful  sentiment,  compounded  out  of  fear  and 
exultation,  the  coil  of  equinoctial  tempests;  trumpeting 
squalls,  scouring  flaws  of  rain;  the  boats  with  their 
reefed  lugsails  scudding  for  the  harbour  mouth,  where 
danger  lay,  for  it  was  hard  to  make  when  the  wind  had 
any  east  in  it;  the  wives  clustered  with  blowing  shawls 
at  the  pier-head,  where  (if  fate  was  against  them)  they 
might  see  boat  and  husband  and  sons  —  their  whole 
wealth  and  their  whole  family  —  engulfed  under  their 
eyes ;  and  (what  I  saw  but  once)  a  troop  of  neighbours 
forcing  such  an  unfortunate  homeward,  and  she  squall- 
ing and  battling  in  their  midst,  a  figure  scarcely  human, 
a  tragic  Maenad. 

These  are  things  that  I  recall  with  interest ;  but  what 
my  memory  dwells  upon  the  most,  I  have  been  all  this 
while  withholding.  It  was  a  sport  peculiar  to  the  place, 
and  indeed  to  a  week  or  so  of  our  two  months'  holiday 
there.  Maybe  it  still  flourishes  in  its  native  spot;  for 
boys  and  their  pastimes  are  swayed  by  periodic  forces 
inscrutable  to  man ;  so  that  tops  and  marbles  reappear 
in  their  due  season,  regular  like  the  sun  and  moon ;  and 
the  harmless  art  of  knucklebones -has  seen  the  fall  of  the 
Roman  empire  and  the  rise  of  the  United  States.  It  may 
still  flourish  in  its  native  spot,  but  nowhere  else,  I  am 
persuaded ;  for  I  tried  myself  to  introduce  it  on  Tweed- 
side,  and  was  defeated  lamentably;  its  charm  being 
quite  local,  like  a  country  wine  that  cannot  be  ex- 
ported. 

The  idle  manner  of  it  was  this: — 

239 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

Toward  the  end  of  September,  when  school-time 
was  drawing  near  and  the  nights  were  already  black, 
we  would  begin  to  sally  from  our  respective  villas,  each 
equipped  with  a  tin  bull's-eye  lantern.  The  thing  was 
so  well  known  that  it  had  worn  a  rut  in  the  commerce 
of  Great  Britain ;  and  the  grocers,  about  the  due  time, 
began  to  garnish  their  windows  with  our  particular 
brand  of  luminary.  We  wore  them  buckled  to  the 
waist  upon  a  cricket  belt,  and  over  them,  such  was  the 
rigour  of  the  game,  a  buttoned  top-coat.  They  smelled 
noisomely  of  blistered  tin ;  they  never  burned  aright, 
though  they  would  always  burn  our  fingers ;  their  use 
was  naught;  the  pleasure  of  them  merely  fanciful;  and 
yet  a  boy  with  a  bull's-eye  under  his  top-coat  asked  for 
nothing  more.  The  fishermen  used  lanterns  about  their 
boats,  and  it  was  from  them,  I  suppose,  that  we  had 
got  the  hint;  but  theirs  were  not  bull's-eyes,  nor  did 
we  ever  play  at  being  fishermen.  The  police  carried 
them  at  their  belts,  and  we  had  plainly  copied  them  in 
that ;  yet  we  did  not  pretend  to  be  po^cemen.  Burglars, 
indeed,  we  may  have  had  some  haunting  thoughts  of ; 
and  we  had  certainly  an  eye  to  past  ages  when  lanterns 
were  more  common,  and  to  certain  story-books  in 
which  we  had  found  them  to  figure  very  largely.  But 
take  it  for  all  in  all,  the  pleasure  of  the  thing  was  sub- 
stantive ;  and  to  be  a  boy  with  a  bull's-eye  under  his 
top-coat  was  good  enough  for  us. 

When  two  of  these  asses  met,  there  would  be  an 
anxious  ''Have  you  got  your  lantern.?^"  and  a  gratified 
'"Yes!"  That  was  the  shibboleth,  and  very  needful 
too ;  for,  as  it  was  the  rule  to  keep  our  glory  contained, 
none  could  recognise  a  lantern-bearer,  unless  (like  the 

240 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

pole-cat)  by  the  smell.  Four  or  five  would  sometimes 
climb  into  the  belly  of  a  ten-man  lugger,  with  nothing 
but  the  thwarts  above  them  —  for  the  cabin  was  usually 
locked,  or  choose  out  some  hollow  of  the  links  where 
the  wind  might  whistle  overhead.  There  the  coats 
would  be  unbuttoned  and  the  bull's-eyes  discovered; 
and  in  the  chequering  glimmer,  under  the  huge  windy 
hall  of  the  night,  and  cheered  by  a  rich  steam  of  toast- 
ing tinware,  these  fortunate  young  gentlemen  would 
crouch  together  in  the  cold  sand  of  the  links  or  on  the 
scaly  bilges  of  the  fishing-boat,  and  delight  themselves 
with  inappropriate  talk.  Woe  is  me  that  I  may  not 
give  some  specimens  —  some  of  their  foresights  of  life, 
or  deep  inquiries  into  the  rudiments  of  man  and  nature, 
these  were  so  fiery  and  so  innocent,  they  were  so  richly 
silly,  so  romantically  young.  But  the  talk,  at  any  rate, 
was  but  a  condiment;  and  these  gatherings  themselves 
only  accidents  in  the  career  of  the  lantern-bearer.  The 
essence  of  this  bliss  was  to  walk  by  yourself  in  the 
black  night;  the  slide  shut,  the  top-coat  buttoned;  not 
a  ray  escaping,  whether  to  conduct  your  footsteps  or  to 
make  your  glory  public :  a  mere  pillar  of  darkness  in  the 
dark ;  and  all  the  while,  deep  down  in  the  privacy  of 
your  fool's  heart,  to  know  you  had  a  bull's-eye  at  your 
belt,  and  to  exult  and  sing  over  the  knowledge. 


It  is  said  that  a  poet  has  died  young  in  the  breast  of 
the  most  stolid.  It  may  be  contended,  rather,  that  this 
(somewhat  minor)  bard  in  almost  every  case  survives, 
and  is  the  spice  of  life  to  his  possessor.    Justice  is  not 

241 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

done  to  the  versatility  and  the  unplumbed  childishness 
of  man's  imagination.  His  life  from  without  may  seem 
but  a  rude  mound  of  mud;  there  will  be  some  golden 
chamber  at  the  heart  of  it,  in  which  he  dwells  delighted ; 
and  for  as  dark  as  his  pathway  seems  to  the  observer, 
he  will  have  some  kind  of  a  bull's-eye  at  his  belt. 

It  would  be  hard  to  pick  out  a  career  more  cheerless 
than  that  of  Dancer,  the  miser,  as  he  figures  in  the  **OId 
Bailey  Reports,"  a  prey  to  the  most  sordid  persecutions, 
the  butt  of  his  neighbourhood,  betrayed  by  his  hired 
man,  his  house  beleaguered  by  the  impish  school-boy, 
and  he  himself  grinding  and  fuming  and  impotently 
fleeing  to  the  law  against  these  pin-pricks.  You  marvel 
at  first  that  any  one  should  willingly  prolong  a  life  so 
destitute  of  charm  and  dignity;  and  then  you  call  to 
memory  that  had  he  chosen,  had  he  ceased  to  be  a 
miser,  he  could  have  been  freed  at  once  from  these 
trials,  and  might  have  built  himself  a  castle  and  gone  es- 
corted by  a  squadron.  For  the  love  of  more  recondite 
joys,  which  we  cannot  estimate,  which,  it  may  be,  we 
should  envy,  the  man  had  willingly  foregone  both  com- 
fort and  consideration.  *'  His  mind  to  him  a  kingdom 
was  " ;  and  sure  enough,  digging  into  that  mind,  which 
seems  at  first  a  dust-heap,  we  unearth  some  priceless 
jewels.  For  Dancer  must  have  had  the  love  of  power 
and  the  disdain  of  using  it,  a  noble  character  in  itself; 
disdain  of  many  pleasures,  a  chief  part  of  what  is  com- 
monly called  wisdom ;  disdain  of  the  inevitable  end,  that 
finest  trait  of  mankind ;  scorn  of  men's  opinions,  another 
element  of  virtue ;  and  at  the  back  of  all,  a  conscience  just 
like  yours  and  mine,  whining  like  a  cur,  swindling  like 
a  thimble-rigger,  but  still  pointing  (there  or  thereabout) 

242 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

to  some  conventional  standard.  Here  were  a  cabinet 
portrait  to  which  Hawthorne  perhaps  had  done  justice ; 
and  yet  not  Hawthorne  either,  for  he  was  mildly  minded, 
and  it  lay  not  in  him  to  create  for  us  that  throb  of  the 
miser's  pulse,  his  fretful  energy  of  gusto,  his  vast  arms 
of  ambition  clutching  in  he  knows  not  what :  insatiable, 
insane,  a  god  with  a  muck-rake.  Thus,  at  least,  look- 
ing in  the  bosom  of  the  miser,  consideration  detects  the 
poet  in  the  full  tide  of  life,  with  more,  indeed,  of  the  poetic 
fire  than  usually  goes  to  epics ;  and  tracing  that  mean 
man  about  his  cold  hearth,  and  to  and  fro  in  his  discom- 
fortable  house,  spies  within  him  a  blazing  bonfire  of 
delight.  And  so  with  others,  who  do  not  live  by  bread 
alone,  but  by  some  cherished  and  perhaps  fantastic  plea- 
sure; who  are  meat  salesmen  to  the  external  eye,  and 
possibly  to  themselves  are  Shakespeares,  Napoleons,  or 
Beethovens ;  who  have  not  one  virtue  to  rub  against  an- 
other in  the  field  of  active  life,  and  yet  perhaps,  in  the 
life  of  contemplation,  sit  with  the  saints.  We  see  them 
on  the  street,  and  we  can  count  their  buttons;  but 
heaven  knows  in  what  they  pride  themselves !  heaven 
knows  where  they  have  set  their  treasure ! 

There  is  one  fable  that  touches  very  near  the  quick  of 
life :  the  fable  of  the  monk  who  passed  into  the  woods, 
heard  a  bird  break  into  song,  hearkened  for  a  trill  or  two, 
and  found  himself  on  his  return  a  stranger  at  his  con- 
vent gates;  for  he  had  been  absent  fifty  years,  and  of  all 
his  comrades  there  survived  but  one  to  recognise  him. 
It  is  not  only  in  the  woods  that  this  enchanter  carols, 
though  perhaps  he  is  native  there.  He  sings  in  the  most 
doleful  places.  The  miser  hears  him  and  chuckles,  and 
the  days  are  moments.     With  no  more  apparatus  than 

243 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 

an  ill-smelling  lantern  I  have  evoked  him  on  the  naked 
links.  All  life  that  is  not  merely  mechanical  is  spun  out 
of  two  strands :  seeking  for  that  bird  and  hearing  him. 
And  it  is  just  this  that  makes  life  so  hard  to  value,  and 
the  delight  of  each  so  incommunicable.  And  just  a 
knowledge  of  this,  and  a  remembrance  of  those  fortu- 
nate hours  in  which  the  bird  has  sung  to  us,  that  fills  us 
with  such  wonder  when  we  turn  the  pages  of  the  realist. 
There,  to  be  sure,  we  find  a  picture  of  life  in  so  far  as  it 
consists  of  mud  and  of  old  iron,  cheap  desires  and  cheap 
fears,  that  which  we  are  ashamed  to  remember  and  that 
which  we  are  careless  whether  we  forget ;  but  of  the  note 
of  that  time-devouring  nightingale  we  hear  no  news. 

The  case  of  these  writers  of  romance  is  most  obscure. 
They  have  been  boys  and  youths;  they  have  lingered 
outside  the  window  of  the  beloved,  who  was  then  most 
probably  writing  to  some  one  else ;  they  have  sat  before 
a  sheet  of  paper,  and  felt  themselves  mere  continents  of 
congested  poetry,  not  one  line  of  which  would  flow; 
they  have  walked  alone  in  the  woods,  they  have  walked 
in  cities  under  the  countless  lamps ;  they  have  been  to 
sea,  they  have  hated,  they  have  feared,  they  have  longed 
to  knife  a  man,  and  maybe  done  it;  the  wild  taste  of 
life  has  stung  their  palate.  Or,  if  you  deny  them  all  the 
rest,  one  pleasure  at  least  they  have  tasted  to  the  full  — 
their  books  are  there  to  prove  it  —  the  keen  pleasure  of 
successful  literary  composition.  And  yet  they  fill  the 
globe  with  volumes,  whose  cleverness  inspires  me  with 
despairing  admiration,  and  whose  consistent  falsity  to 
all  I  care  to  call  existence,  with  despairing  wrath.  If 
I  had  no  better  hope  than  to  continue  to  revolve  among 
the  dreary  and  petty  businesses,  and  to  be  moved  by  the 

244 


THE   LANTERN-BEARERS 

paltry  hopes  and  fears  with  which  they  surround  and 
animate  their  heroes,  I  declare  I  would  die  now.  But 
there  has  never  an  hour  of  mine  gone  quite  so  dully  yet; 
if  it  were  spent  waiting  at  a  railway  junction,  I  would 
have  some  scattering  thoughts,  I  could  count  some  grains 
of  memory,  compared  to  which  the  whole  of  one  of  these 
romances  seems  but  dross. 

These  writers  would  retort  (if  I  take  them  properly) 
that  this  was  very  true ;  that  it  was  the  same  with  them- 
selves and  other  persons  of  (what  they  call)  the  artistic 
temperament;  that  in  this  we  were  exceptional,  and 
should  apparently  be  ashamed  of  ourselves;  but  that  our 
works  must  deal  exclusively  with  (what  they  call)  the 
average  man,  who  was  a  prodigious  dull  fellow,  and 
quite  dead  to  all  but  the  paltriest  considerations.  I  ac- 
cept the  issue.  We  can  only  know  others  by  ourselves. 
The  artistic  temperament  (a  plague  on  the  expression ! ) 
does  not  make  us  different  from  our  fellow-men,  or  it 
would  make  us  incapable  of  writing  novels;  and  the 
average  man  (a  murrain  on  the  word ! )  is  just  like  you 
and  me,  or  he  would  not  be  average.  It  was  Whitman 
who  stamped  a  kind  of  Birmingham  sacredness  upon 
the  latter  phrase;  but  Whitman  knew  very  well,  and 
showed  very  nobly,  that  the  average  man  was  full  of 
joys  and  full  of  a  poetry  of  his  own.  And  this  harping 
on  life's  dulness  and  man's  meanness  is  a  loud  profession 
of  incom[:etence ;  it  is  one  of  two  things :  the  cry  of  the 
blind  eye,  /  cannot  see,  or  the  complaint  of  the  dumb 
tongue,  /  cannot  utter.  To  draw  a  life  without  delights 
is  to  prove  I  have  not  realised  it.  To  picture  a  man 
without  some  sort  of  poetry  —  well,  it  goes  near  to 
prove  my  case,  for  it  shows  an  author  may  have  little 

245 


THE   LANTERN-BEARERS 

enough.  To  see  Dancer  only  as  a  dirty,  old,  small- 
minded,  impotently  fuming  man,  in  a  dirty  house,  be- 
sieged by  Harrow  boys,  and  probably  beset  by  small 
attorneys,  is  to  show  myself  as  keen  an  observer  as 
.  .  .  the  Harrow  boys.  But  these  young  gentlemen- 
(with  a  more  becoming  modesty)  were  content  to  pluck 
Dancer  by  the  coat-tails ;  they  did  not  suppose  they  had 
surprised  his  secret  or  could  put  him  living  in  a  book: 
and  it  is  there  my  error  would  have  lain.  Or  say  that 
in  the  same  romance  —  I  continue  to  call  these  books 
romances,  in  the  hope  of  giving  pain  —  say  that  in  the 
same  romance,  which  now  begins  really  to  take  shape, 
I  should  leave  to  speak  of  Dancer,  and  follow  instead 
the  Harrow  boys;  and  say  that  I  came  on  some  such 
business  as  that  of  my  lantern-bearers  on  the  links ;  and 
described  the  boys  as  very  cold,  spat  upon  by  flurries  of 
rain,  and  drearily  surrounded,  all  of  which  they  were ; 
and  their  talk  as  silly  and  indecent,  which  it  certainly 
was.  I  might  upon  these  lines,  and  had  I  Zola's  genius, 
turn  out,  in  a  page  or  so,  a  gem  of  literary  art,  render 
the  lantern-light  with  the  touches  of  a  master,  and  lay 
on  the  indecency  with  the  ungrudging  hand  of  love,*^ 
and  when  all  was  done,  what  a  triumph  would  my  pic- 
ture be  of  shallowness  and  dulness!  how  it  would  have 
missed  the  point!  how  it  would  have  belied  the  boys! 
To  the  ear  of  the  stenographer,  the  talk  is  merely  silly 
and  indecent;  but  ask  the  boys  themselves,  and  they  are 
discussing  (as  it  is  highly  proper  they  should)  the  pos- 
sibilities of  existence.  To  the  eye  of  the  observer  they 
are  wet  and  cold  and  drearily  surrounded ;  but  ask  them- 
selves, and  they  are  in  the  heaven  of  a  recondite  pleasure, 
the  ground  of  which  is  an  ill-smelling  lantern. 

246 


THE  LANTERN-BEARERS 


III 


For,  to  repeat,  the  ground  of  a  man's  joy  is  often  hard 
to  hit.  It  may  hinge  at  times  upon  a  mere  accessory, 
like  the  lantern,  it  may  reside,  like  Dancer's,  in  the  mys- 
terious inwards  of  psychology.  It  may  consist  with 
perpetual  failure,  and  find  exercise  in  the  continued  chase. 
It  has  so  little  bond  with  externals  (such  as  the  observer 
scribbles  in  his  note-book)  that  it  may  even  touch  them 
not;  and  the  man's  true  life,  for  which  he  consents  to 
live,  lie  altogether  in  the  field  of  fancy.  The  clergyman, 
in  his  spare  hours,  may  be  winning  battles,  the  farmer 
sailing  ships,  the  banker  reaping  triumph  in  the  arts :  all 
leading  another  life,  plying  another  trade  from  that  they 
chose;  like  the  poet's  housebuilder,  who,  after  all  is 
cased  in  stone, 

"  By  his  fireside,  as  impotent  fancy  prompts, 
Rebuilds  it  to  his  liking." 

In  such  a  case  the  poetry  runs  underground.  The  ob- 
server (poor  soul,  with  his  documents !)  is  all  abroad. 
For  to  look  at  the  man  is  but  to  court  deception.  We  shall 
see  the  trunk  from  which  he  draws  his  nourishment; 
but  he  himself  is  above  and  abroad  in  the  green  dome 
of  foliage,  hummed  through  by  winds  and  nested  in  by 
nightingales.  And  the  true  realism  were  that  of  the 
poets,  to  climb  up  after  him  like  a  squirrel,  and  catch 
some  glimpse  of  the  heaven  for  which  he  lives.  And 
the  true  realism,  always  and  everywhere,  is  that  of  the 
poets:  to  find  out  where  joy  resides,  and  give  it  a  voice 
far  beyond  singing. 

For  to  miss  the  joy  is  to  miss  all.     In  the  joy  of  the 

247 


THE   LANTERN-BEARERS 

actors  lies  the  sense  of  any  action.  That  is  the  explanation, 
that  the  excuse.  To  one  who  has  not  the  secret  of  the 
lanterns,  the  scene  upon  the  links  is  meaningless.  And 
hence  the  haunting  and  truly  spectral  unreality  of  re- 
alistic books.  Hence,  when  we  read  the  English  realists, 
the  incredulous  wonder  with  which  we  observe  the 
hero's  constancy  under  the  submerging  tide  of  dulness, 
and  how  he  bears  up  with  his  jibbing  sweetheart,  and 
endures  the  chatter  of  idiot  girls,  and  stands  by  his 
w^hole  unfeatured  wilderness  of  an  existence,  instead  of 
seeking  relief  in  drink  or  foreign  travel.  Hence  in  the 
French,  in  that  meat-market  of  middle-aged  sensuality, 
the  disgusted  surprise  with  which  we  see  the  hero  drift 
sidelong,  and  practically  quite  untempted,  into  every 
description  of  misconduct  and  dishonour.  In  each,  we 
miss  the  personal  poetry,  the  enchanted  atmosphere, 
that  rainbow  work  of  fancy  that  clothes  what  is  naked 
and  seems  to  ennoble  what  is  base;  in  each,  life  falls 
dead  like  dough,  instead  of  soaring  away  like  a  balloon 
into  the  colours  of  the  sunset;  each  is  true,  each  incon- 
ceivable ;  for  no  man  lives  in  the  external  truth,  among 
salts  and  acids,  but  in  the  warm,  phantasmagoric  cham- 
ber of  his  brain,  with  the  painted  windows  and  the 
storied  walls. 

Of  this  falsity  we  have  had  a  recent  example  from  a 
man  who  knows  far  better  —  Tolstoi's  Powers  of  Dark- 
ness. Here  is  a  piece  full  of  force  and  truth,  yet  quite 
untrue.  For  before  Mikita  was  led  into  so  dire  a  situa- 
tion he  was  tempted,  and  temptations  are  beautiful  at 
least  in  part;  and  a  work  which  dwells  on  the  ugliness 
of  crime  and  gives  no  hint  of  any  loveliness  in  the  temp- 
tation, sins  against  the  modesty  of  life,  and  even  when 

248 


THE   LANTERN-BEARERS 

a  Tolstoi  writes  it,  sinks  to  melodrama.  The  peasants 
are  not  understood ;  they  saw  their  life  in  fairer  colours ; 
even  the  deaf  girl  was  clothed  in  poetry  for  Mikita,  or 
he  had  never  fallen.  And  so,  once  again,  even  an  Old 
Bailey  melodrama,  without  some  brightness  of  poetry 
and  lustre  of  existence,  falls  into  the  inconceivable  and 
ranks  with  fairy  tales. 

IV 

In  nobler  books  we  are  moved  with  something  like 
the  emotions  of  life;  and  this  emotion  is  very  variously 
provoked.  We  are  so  moved  when  Levine  labours  in 
the  field,  when  Andre  sinks  beyond  emotion,  when 
Richard  Feverel  and  Lucy  Desborough  meet  beside  the 
river,  when  Antony,  "not  cowardly,  puts  off"  his  helmet,'* 
when  Kent  has  infinite  pity  on  the  dying  Lear,  when,  in 
Dostoieflfsky's  Despised  and  Rejected,  the  uncomplaining 
hero  drains  his  cup  of  suffering  and  virtue.  These  are 
notes  that  please  the  great  heart  of  man.  Not  only  love, 
and  the  fields,  and  the  bright  face  of  danger,  but  sacri- 
fice and  death  and  unmerited  suffering  humbly  sup- 
ported, touch  in  us  the  vein  of  the  poetic.  We  love  to 
think  of  them,  we  long  to  try  them,  we  are  humbly 
hopeful  that  we  may  prove  heroes  also. 

We  have  heard,  perhaps,  too  much  of  lesser  matters. 
Here  is  the  door,  here  is  the  open  air.  Itur  in  antiquam 
silvam. 


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VIII.    A  CHAPTER  ON  DREAMS 

The  past  is  all  of  one  texture  —  whether  feigned  or 
suffered  —  whether  acted  out  in  three  dimensions,  or 
only  witnessed  in  that  small  theatre  of  the  brain  which 
we  keep  brightly  lighted  all  night  long,  after  the  jets  are 
down,  and  darkness  and  sleep  reign  undisturbed  in  the 
remainder  of  the  body.  There  is  no  distinction  on  the 
face  of  our  experiences ;  one  is  vivid  indeed,  and  one 
dull,  and  one  pleasant,  and  another  agonising  to  remem- 
ber; but  which  of  them  is  what  we  call  true,  and  which 
a  dream,  there  is  not  one  hair  to  prove.  The  past  stands 
on  a  precarious  footing;  another  straw  split  in  the  field 
of  metaphysic,  and  behold  us  robbed  of  it.  There  is 
scarce  a  family  that  can  count  four  generations  but  lays 
a  claim  to  some  dormant  title  or  some  castle  and  estate: 
a  claim  not  prosecutable  in  any  court  of  law,  but  flatter- 
ing to  the  fancy  and  a  great  alleviation  of  idle  hours.  A 
man's  claim  to  his  own  past  is  yet  less  valid.  A  paper 
might  turn  up  (in  proper  story-book  fashion)  in  the  se- 
cret drawer  of  an  old  ebony  secretary,  and  restore  your 
family  to  its  ancient  honours,  and  reinstate  mine  in  a 
certain  West  Indian  islet  (not  far  from  St.  Kitt's,  as  be- 
loved tradition  hummed  in  my  young  ears)  which  was 
once  ours,  and  is  now  unjustly  someone  else's,  and  for 

250 


A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

that  matter  (in  the  state  of  the  sugar  trade)  is  not  worth 
anything  to  anybody.  I  do  not  say  that  these  revolu- 
tions are  likely ;  only  no  man  can  deny  that  they  are  pos- 
sible; and  the  past,  on  the  other  hand,  is  lost  forever: 
our  old  days  and  deeds,  our  old  selves,  too,  and  the  very 
world  in  which  these  scenes  were  acted,  all  brought 
down  to  the  same  faint  residuum  as  a  last  night's  dream, 
to  some  incontinuous  images,  and  an  echo  in  the  cham- 
bers of  the  brain.  Not  an  hour,  not  a  mood,  not  a  glance 
of  the  eye,  can  we  revoke;  it  is  all  gone,  past  conjuring. 
And  yet  conceive  us  robbed  of  it,  conceive  that  little 
thread  of  memory  that  we  trail  behind  us  broken  at  the 
fpockefs  edge ;  and  in  what  naked  nullity  should  we  be 
left !  for  we  only  guide  ourselves,  and  only  know  our- 
selves, by  these  air-painted  pictures  of  the  past. 

Upon  these  grounds,  there  are  some  among  us  who 
claimed  to  have  lived  longer  and  more  richly  than  their 
neighbours ;  when  they  lay  asleep  they  claim  they  were 
^till  active ;  and  among  the  treasures  of  memory  that  all 
men  review  for  their  amusement,  these  count  in  no  sec- 
ond place  the  harvests  of  their  dreams.  There  is  one 
of  this  kind  whom  I  have  in  my  eye,  and  whose  case  is 
perhaps  unusual  enough  to  be  described.  He  was  from 
^  child  an  ardent  and  uncomfortable  dreamer.  When  he 
had  a  touch  of  fever  at  night,  and  the  room  swelled  and 
shrank,  and  his  clothes,  hanging  on  a  nail,  now  loomed 
up  instant  to  the  bigness  of  a  church,  and  now  drew 
away  into  a  horror  of  infinite  distance  and  infinite  little- 
ness, the  poor  soul  was  very  well  aware  of  what  must 
follow,  and  struggled  hard  against  the  approaches  of 
that  slumber  which  was  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  But 
Jiis  struggles  were  in  vain ;  sooner  or  later  the  night-hag 

251 


A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

would  have  him  by  the  throat,  and  pluck  him,  strangling 
and  screaming,  from  his  sleep.  His  dreams  were  at 
times  commonplace  enough,  at  times  very  strange :  at 
times  they  were  almost  formless,  he  would  be  haunted, 
for  instance,  by  nothing  more  definite  than  a  certain  hue 
of  brown,  which  he  did  not  mind  in  the  least  while  he 
was  awake,  but  feared  and  loathed  while  he  was  dream- 
ing;  at  times,  again,  they  took  on  every  detail  of  circum- 
stance, as  when  once  he  supposed  he  must  swallow  the 
populous  world,  and  awoke  screaming  with  the  horror 
of  the  thought.  The  two  chief  troubles  of  his  very  nar- 
row existence  —  the  practical  and  everyday  trouble  of 
school  tasks  and  the  ultimate  and  airy  one  of  hell  and 
judgment  —  were  often  confounded  together  into  one 
appalling  nightmare.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  stand 
before  the  Great  White  Throne ;  he  was  called  on,  poor 
little  devil,  to  recite  some  form  of  words,  on  which  his 
destiny  depended;  his  tongue  stuck,  his  memory  was 
blank,  hell  gaped  for  him ;  and  he  would  awake,  cling- 
ing to  the  curtain-rod  with  his  knees  to  his  chin. 

These  were  extremely  poor  experiences,  on  the  whole ; 
and  at  that  time  of  life  my  dreamer  would  have  very 
willingly  parted  with  his  power  of  dreams.  But  pres- 
ently, in  the  course  of  his  growth,  the  cries  and  phys- 
ical contortions  passed  away,  seemingly  forever;  his 
visions  were  still  for  the  most  part  miserable,  but  they 
were  more  constantly  supported ;  and  he  would  awake 
with  no  more  extreme  symptom  than  a  flying  heart,  a 
freezing  scalp,  cold  sweats,  and  the  speechless  midnight 
fear.  His  dreams,  too,  as  befitted  a  mind  better  stocked 
with  particulars,  became  more  circumstantial,  and  had 
more  the  air  and  continuity  of  life.     The  look  of  the 

252 


A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

world  beginning  to  take  hold  on  his  attention,  scenery 
came  to  play  a  part  in  his  sleeping  as  well  as  in  his  wak- 
ing thoughts,  so  that  he  would  take  long,  uneventful 
journeys  and  see  strange  towns  and  beautiful  places  as 
he  lay  in  bed.  And,  what  is  more  significant,  an  odd 
taste  that  he  had  for  the  Georgian  costume  and  for 
stories  laid  in  that  period  of  English  history,  began  to 
rule  the  features  of  his  dreams ;  so  that  he  masqueraded 
there  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  and  was  much  engaged 
with  Jacobite  conspiracy  between  the  hour  for  bed  and 
that  for  breakfast.  About  the  same  time,  he  began  to 
read  in  his  dreams  —  tales,  for  the  most  part,  and  for  the 
most  part  after  the  manner  of  G.  P.  R.  James,  but  so 
incredibly  more  vivid  and  moving  than  any  printed 
book,  that  he  has  ever  since  been  malcontent  with 
literature. 

And  then,  while  he  was  yet  a  student,  there  came  to 
him  a  dream-adventure  which  he  has  no  anxiety  to  re- 
peat; he  began,  that  is  to  say,  to  dream  in  sequence 
and  thus  to  lead  a  double  life  —  one  of  the  day,  one  of 
the  night  —  one  that  he  had  every  reason  to  believe  was 
the  true  one,  another  that  he  had  no  means  of  proving 
to  be  false.  I  should  have  said  he  studied,  or  was  by 
way  of  studying,  at  Edinburgh  College,  which  (it  may 
be  supposed)  was  how  1  came  to  know  him.  Well,  in 
his  dream  life,  he  passed  a  long  day  in  the  surgical  thea- 
tre, his  heart  in  his  mouth,  his  teeth  on  edge,  seeing 
monstrous  malformations  and  the  abhorred  dexterity  of 
surgeons.  In  a  heavy,  rainy,  foggy  evening  he  came 
forth  into  the  South  Bridge,  turned  up  the  High  Street, 
and  entered  the  door  of  a  tall  land,  at  the  top  of  which 
he  supposed  himself  to  lodge.     All  night  long,  in  his 

253 


A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

wet  clothes,  he  climbed  the  stairs,  stair  after  stair  in 
endless  series,  and  at  every  second  flight  a  flaring  lamp 
with  a  reflector.  All  night  long,  he  brushed  by  single 
persons  passing  downward  —  beggarly  women  of  the 
street,  great,  weary,  muddy  labourers,  poor  scarecrows 
of  men,  pale  parodies  of  women  —  but  all  drowsy  and 
weary  like  himself,  and  all  single,  and  all  brushing 
against  him  as  they  passed.  In  the  end,  out  of  a  north- 
ern window,  he  would  see  day  beginning  to  whiten 
over  the  Firth,  give  up  the  ascent,  turn  to  descend,  and 
in  a  breath  be  back  again  upon  the  streets,  in  his  wet 
clothes,  in  the  wet,  haggard  dawn,  trudging  to  another 
day  of  monstrosities  and  operations.  Time  went  quicker 
in  the  life  of  dreams,  some  seven  hours  (as  near  as  he 
can  guess)  to  one ;  and  it  went,  besides,  more  intensely, 
so  that  the  gloom  of  these  fancied  experiences  clouded 
the  day,  and  he  had  not  shaken  off  their  shadow  ere  it 
was  time  to  lie  down  and  to  renew  them.  I  cannot  tell 
how  long  it  was  that  he  endured  this  discipline ;  but  it 
was  long  enough  to  leave  a  great  black  blot  upon  his 
memory,  long  enough  to  send  him,  trembling  for  his 
reason,  to  the  doors  of  a  certain  doctor;  whereupon 
with  a  simple  draught  he  was  restored  to  the  common 
lot  of  man. 

The  poor  gentleman  has  since  been  troubled  by  noth- 
ing of  the  sort;  indeed,  his  nights  were  for  some  while 
like  other  men's,  now  blank,  now  chequered  with 
dreams,  and  these  sometimes  charming,  sometimes 
appalling,  but  except  for  an  occasional  vividness,  of  no 
extraordinary  kind.  1  will  just  note  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, ere  1  pass  on  to  what  makes  my  dreamer  truly 
interesting.     It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  the  first 

254 


A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

floor  of  a  rough  hill-farm.  The  room  showed  some 
poor  efforts  at  gentility,  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  a  piano,  I 
think,  against  the  wall;  but,  for  all  these  refinements, 
there  was  no  mistaking  he  was  in  a  moorland  place, 
among  hillside  people,  and  set  in  miles  of  heather.  He 
looked  down  from  the  window  upon  a  bare  farmyard, 
that  seemed  to  have  been  long  disused.  A  great,  un- 
easy stillness  lay  upon  the  world.  There  was  no  sign 
of  the  farm-folk  or  of  any  live  stock,  save  for  an  old, 
brown,  curly  dog  of  the  retriever  breed,  who  sat  close 
in  against  the  wall  of  the  house  and  seemed  to  be  dozing. 
Something  about  this  dog  disquieted  the  dreamer;  it  was 
quite  a  nameless  feeling,  for  the  beast  looked  right 
enough — indeed,  he  was  so  old  and  dull  and  dusty  and 
broken-down,  that  he  should  rather  have  awakened 
pity;  and  yet  the  conviction  came  and  grew  upon  the 
dreamer  that  this  was  no  proper  dog  at  all,  but  some- 
thing hellish.  A  great  many  dozing  summer  flies 
hummed  about  the  yard ;  and  presently  the  dog  thrust 
forth  his  paw,  caught  a  fly  in  his  open  palm,  carried  it 
to  his  mouth  like  an  ape,  and  looking  suddenly  up  at 
the  dreamer  in  the  window,  winked  to  him  with  one 
eye.  The  dream  went  on,  it  matters  not  how  it  went ; 
it  was  a  good  dream  as  dreams  go ;  but  there  was  noth- 
ing in  the  sequel  worthy  of  that  devilish  brown  dog. 
And  the  point  of  interest  for  me  lies  partly  in  that  very 
fact:  that  having  found  so  singular  an  incident,  my  im- 
perfect dreamer  should  prove  unable  to  carry  the  tale  to 
a  fit  end  and  fall  back  on  indescribable  noises  and  in- 
discriminate horrors.  It  would  be  different  now;  he 
knows  his  business  better! 
For,  to  approach  at  last  the  point :    This  honest  fel- 

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A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

low  had  long  been  in  the  custom  of  setting  himself  to 
sleep  with  tales,  and  so  had  his  father  before  him ;  but 
these  were  irresponsible  inventions,  told  for  the  teller's 
pleasure,  with  no  eye  to  the  crass  public  or  the  thwart 
reviewer:  tales  where  a  thread  might  be  dropped,  or 
one  adventure  quitted  for  another,  on  fancy's  least  sug- 
gestion. So  that  the  little  people  who  manage  man's 
internal  theatre  had  not  as  yet  received  a  very  rigorous 
training;  and  played  upon  their  stage  like  children  who 
should  have  slipped  into  the  house  and  found  it  empty, 
rather  than  like  drilled  actors  performing  a  set  piece  to  a 
huge  hall  of  faces.  But  presently  my  dreamer  began  to 
turn  his  former  amusement  of  story-telling  to  (what  is 
called)  account;  by  which  I  mean  that  he  began  to  write 
and  sell  his  tales.  Here  was  he,  and  here  were  the  little 
people  who  did  that  part  of  his  business,  in  quite  new 
conditions.  The  stories  must  now  be  trimmed  and 
pared  and  set  upon  all  fours,  they  must  run  from  a  be- 
ginning to  an  end  and  fit  (after  a  manner)  with  the 
laws  of  life;  the  pleasure,  in  one  word,  had  become  a 
business ;  and  that  not  only  for  the  dreamer,  but  for  the 
little  people  of  his  theatre.  These  understood  the  change 
as  well  as  he.  When  he  lay  down  to  prepare  himself 
for  sleep,  he  no  longer  sought  amusement,  but  printable 
and  profitable  tales ;  and  after  he  had  dozed  off  in  his  box- 
seat,  his  little  people  continued  their  evolutions  with  the 
same  mercantile  designs.  All  other  forms  of  dream  de- 
serted him  but  two :  he  still  occasionally  reads  the  most 
delightful  books,  he  still  visits  at  times  the  most  delight- 
ful places ;  and  it  is  perhaps  worthy  of  note  that  to  these 
same  places,  and  to  one  in  particular,  he  returns  at  inter- 
vals of  months  and  years,  finding  new  field-paths,  vis- 

256 


A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

iting  new  neighbours,  beholding  that  happy  valley  under 
new  effects  of  noon  and  dawn  and  sunset.  But  all  the 
rest  of  the  family  of  visions  is  quite  lost  to  him :  the  com- 
mon, mangled  version  of  yesterday's  affairs,  the  raw- 
head-and-bloody-bones  nightmare,  rumoured  to  be  the 
child  of  toasted  cheese  —  these  and  their  like  are  gone; 
and,  for  the  most  part,  whether  awake  or  asleep,  he  is 
simply  occupied  —  he  or  his  little  people — in  consciously 
making  stories  for  the  market.  This  dreamer  (like  many 
other  persons)  has  encountered  some  trifling  vicissitudes 
of  fortune.  When  the  bank  begins  to  send  letters  and 
the  butcher  to  linger  at  the  back  gate,  he  sets  to  be- 
labouring his  brains  after  a  story,  for  that  is  his  readiest 
money-winner;  and,  behold!  at  once  the  little  people 
begin  to  bestir  themselves  in  the  same  quest,  and  labour 
all  night  long,  and  all  night  long  set  before  him  trun- 
cheons of  tales  upon  their  lighted  theatre.  No  fear  of  his 
being  frightened  now;  the  flying  heart  and  the  frozen 
scalp  are  things  bygone;  applause,  growing  applause, 
growing  interest,  growing  exultation  in  his  own  clev- 
erness (for  he  takes  all  the  credit),  and  at  last  a  jubilant 
leap  to  wakefulness,  with  the  cry,  *'I  have  it,  that'll 
do! "  upon  his  lips:  with  such  and  similar  emotions  he 
sits  at  these  nocturnal  dramas,  with  such  outbreaks,  like 
Claudius  in  the  play,  he  scatters  the  performance  in  the 
midst.  Often  enough  the  waking  is  a  disappointment: 
he  has  been  too  deep  asleep,  as  I  explain  the  thing; 
drowsiness  has  gained  his  little  people,  they  have  gone 
stumbling  and  maundering  through  their  parts;  and  the 
play,  to  the  awakened  mind,  is  seen  to  be  a  tissue  of  ab- 
surdities. And  yet  how  often  have  these  sleepless 
Brownies  done  him  honest  service,  and  given  him,  as  he 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

sat  idly  taking  his  pleasure  in  the  boxes,  better  tales  than 
he  could  fashion  for  himself. 

Here  is  one,  exactly  as  it  came  to  him.  It  seemed  he 
was  the  son  of  a  very  rich  and  wicked  man,  the  owner 
of  broad  acres  and  a  most  damnable  temper.  The 
dreamer  (and  that  was  the  son)  had  lived  much  abroad, 
on  purpose  to  avoid  his  parent;  and  when  at  length  he 
returned  to  England,  it  was  to  find  him  married  again 
to  a  young  wife,  who  was  supposed  to  suffer  cruelly 
and  to  loathe  her  yoke.  Because  of  this  marriage  (as 
the  dreamer  indistinctly  understood)  it  was  desirable 
for  father  and  son  to  have  a  meeting;  and  yet  both  being 
proud  and  both  angry,  neither  would  condescend  upon 
a  visit.  Meet  they  did  accordingly,  in  a  desolate,  sandy 
country  by  the  sea;  and  there  they  quarrelled,  and  the 
son,  stung  by  some  intolerable  insult,  struck  down  the 
father  dead.  No  suspicion  was  aroused ;  the  dead  man 
was  found  and  buried,  and  the  dreamer  succeeded  to 
the  broad  estates,  and  found  himself  installed  under  the 
same  roof  with  his  father's  widow,  for  whom  no  pro- 
vision had  been  made.  These  two  lived  very  much 
alone,  as  people  may  after  a  bereavement,  sat  down  to 
table  together,  shared  the  long  evenings,  and  grew  daily 
better  friends ;  until  it  seemed  to  him  of  a  sudden  that 
she  was  prying  about  dangerous  matters,  that  she  had 
conceived  a  notion  of  his  guilt,  that  she  watched  him 
and  tried  him  with  questions.  He  drew  back  from  her 
company  as  men  draw  back  from  a  precipice  suddenly 
discovered;  and  yet  so  strong  was  the  attraction  that 
he  would  drift  again  and  again  into  the  old  intimacy, 
and  again  and  again  be  startled  back  by  some  sugges- 
tive question   or  some  inexplicable  meaning  in   her 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

eye.  So  they  lived  at  cross  purposes,  a  life  full  of 
broken  dialogue,  challenging  glances,  and  suppressed 
passion;  until,  one  day,  he  saw  the  woman  slipping 
from  the  house  in  a  veil,  followed  her  to  the  station, 
followed  her  in  the  train  to  the  seaside  country,  and 
out  over  the  sandhills  to  the  very  place  where  the 
murder  was  done.  There  she  began  to  grope  among 
the  bents,  he  watching  her,  flat  upon  his  face;  and 
presently  she  had  something  in  her  hand  —  1  cannot 
remember  what  it  was,  but  it  was  deadly  evidence 
against  the  dreamer  —  and  as  she  held  it  up  to  look  at 
it,  perhaps  from  the  shock  of  the  discovery,  her  foot 
slipped,  and  she  hung  at  some  peril  on  the  brink  of  the 
tall  sand-wreaths.  He  had  no  thought  but  to  spring 
up  and  rescue  her;  and  there  they  stood  face  to  face, 
she  with  that  deadly  matter  openly  in  her  hand  —  his 
very  presence  on  the  spot  another  link  of  proof.  It  was 
plain  she  was  about  to  speak,  but  this  was  more  than 
he  could  bear — he  could  bear  to  be  lost,  but  not  to  talk 
of  it  with  his  destroyer;  and  he  cut  her  short  with  trivial 
conversation.  Arm  in  arm,  they  returned  together  to 
the  train,  talking  he  knew  not  what,  made  the  journey 
back  in  the  same  carriage,  sat  down  to  dinner,  and 
passed  the  evening  in  the  drawing-room  as  in  the  past. 
But  suspense  and  fear  drummed  in  the  dreamer's  bosom. 
*'She  has  not  denounced  me  yet"  —  so  his  thoughts 
ran — "when  will  she  denounce  me?  Will  it  be  to- 
morrow ?  "  And  it  was  not  to-morrow,  nor  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next;  and  their  life  settled  back  on  the  old 
terms,  only  that  she  seemed  kinder  than  before,  and 
that,  as  for  him,  the  burthen  of  his  suspense  and  won- 
der grew  daily  more  unbearable,  so  that  he  wasted 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

away  like  a  man  with  a  disease.  Once,  indeed,  he 
broke  all  bounds  of  decency,  seized  an  occasion  when 
she  was  abroad,  ransacked  her  room,  and  at  last,  hidden 
away  among  her  jewels,  found  the  damning  evidence. 
There  he  stood,  holding  this  thing,  which  was  his  life, 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  marvelling  at  her  incon- 
sequent behaviour,  that  she  should  seek,  and  keep,  and 
yet  not  use  it;  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  behold 
herself.  So,  once  more,  they  stood,  eye  to  eye,  with 
the  evidence  between  them;  and  once  more  she  raised 
to  him  a  face  brimming  with  some  communication ;  and 
once  more  he  shied  away  from  speech  and  cut  her  off. 
But  before  he  left  the  room,  which  he  had  turned  upside 
down,  he  laid  back  his  death-warrant  where  he  had 
found  it;  and  at  that,  her  face  lighted  up.  The  next 
thing  he  heard,  she  was  explaining  to  her  maid,  with 
some  ingenious  falsehood,  the  disorder  of  her  things. 
Flesh  and  blood  could  bear  the  strain  no  longer;  and  I 
think  it  was  the  next  morning  (though  chronology  is 
always  hazy  in  the  theatre  of  the  mind)  that  he  burst 
from  his  reserve.  They  had  been  breakfasting  together 
in  one  corner  of  a  great,  parqueted,  sparely-furnished 
room  of  many  windows;  all  the  time  of  the  meal  she 
had  tortured  him  with  sly  allusions;  and  no  sooner 
were  the  servants  gone,  and  these  two  protagonists 
alone  together,  than  he  leaped  to  his  feet.  She  too 
sprang  up,  with  a  pale  face ;  with  a  pale  face,  she  heard 
him  as  he  raved  out  his  complaint:  Why  did  she  torture 
him  so  ?  she  knew  all,  she  knew  he  was  no  enemy  to 
her;  why  did  she  not  denounce  him  at  once.?  what  sig- 
nified her  whole  behaviour  ?  why  did  she  torture  him  ? 
and  yet  again>  why  did  she  torture  him  ?    And  when  he 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

had  done,  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  with  outstretched 
hands:  ''Do  you  not  understand?"  she  cried.  "I  love 
you!" 

Hereupon,  with  a  pang  of  wonder  and  mercantile  de- 
light, the  dreamer  awoke.  His  mercantile  delight  was 
not  of  long  endurance ;  for  it  soon  became  plain  that  in 
this  spirited  tale  there  were  unmarketable  elements; 
which  is  just  the  reason  why  you  have  it  here  so  briefly 
told.  But  his  wonder  has  still  kept  growing;  and  I 
think  the  reader's  will  also,  if  he  consider  it  ripely.  For 
now  he  sees  why  I  speak  of  the  little  people  as  of  sub- 
stantive inventors  and  performers.  To  the  end  they 
had  kept  their  secret.  I  will  go  bail  for  the  dreamer 
(having  excellent  grounds  for  valuing  his  candour)  that 
he  had  no  guess  whatever  at  the  motive  of  the  woman 
— the  hinge  of  the  whole  well-invented  plot  —  until  the 
instant  of  that  highly  dramatic  declaration.  It  was  not 
his  tale;  it  was  the  little  people's!  And  observe:  not 
only  was  the  secret  kept,  the  story  was  told  with  really 
guileful  craftsmanship.  The  conduct  of  both  actors  is 
(in  the  cant  phrase)  psychologically  correct,  and  the 
emotion  aptly  graduated  up  to  the  surprising  climax.  I 
am  awake  now,  and  I  know  this  trade ;  and  yet  I  can- 
not better  it.  I  am  awake,  and  I  live  by  this  business ; 
and  yet  I  could  not  outdo  —  could  not  perhaps  equal  — 
that  crafty  artifice  (as  of  some  old,  experienced  carpen- 
ter of  plays,  some  Dennery  or  Sardou)  by  which  the 
same  situation  is  twice  presented  and  the  two  actors 
twice  brought  face  to  face  over  the  evidence,  only  once 
it  is  in  her  hand,  once  in  his  —  and  these  in  their  due 
order,  the  least  dramatic  first.  The  more  I  think  of  it, 
the  more  I  am  moved  to  press  upon  the  world  my  ques- 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

tion :  Who  are  the  Little  People  ?  They  are  near  con- 
nections of  the  dreamer's,  beyond  doubt;  they  share 
in  his  financial  worries  and  have  an  eye  to  the  bank- 
book; they  share  plainly  in  his  training;  they  have 
plainly  learned  like  him  to  build  the  scheme  of  a  con- 
siderate story  and  to  arrange  emotion  in  progressive 
order;  only  I  think  they  have  more  talent;  and  one 
thing  is  beyond  doubt,  they  can  tell  him  a  story  piece 
by  piece,  like  a  serial,  and  keep  him  all  the  while  in  ig- 
norance of  where  they  aim.  Who  are  they,  then  ?  and 
who  is  the  dreamer  ? 

Well,  as  regards  the  dreamer,  I  can  answer  that,  for 
he  is  no  less  a  person  than  myself;  —  as  I  might  have 
told  you  from  the  beginning,  only  that  the  critics  mur- 
mur over  my  consistent  egotism;  —  and  as  I  am  posi- 
tively forced  to  tell  you  now,  or  I  could  advance  but 
little  farther  with  my  story.  And  for  the  Little  People, 
what  shall  I  say  they  are  but  just  my  Brownies,  God 
bless  them !  who  do  one-half  my  work  for  me  while  I 
am  fast  asleep,  and  in  all  human  likelihood,  do  the  rest 
for  me  as  well,  when  I  am  wide  awake  and  fondly  sup- 
pose I  do  it  for  myself  That  part  which  is  done  while 
I  am  sleeping  is  the  Brownies'  part  beyond  contention ; 
but  that  which  is  done  when  I  am  up  and  about  is  by 
no  means  necessarily  mine,  since  all  goes  to  show  the 
Brownies  have  a  hand  in  it  even  then.  Here  is  a  doubt 
that  much  concerns  my  conscience.  For  myself — what 
I  call  I,  my  conscience  ego,  the  denizen  of  the  pineal 
gland  unless  he  has  changed  his  residence  since  Des- 
cartes, the  man  with  the  conscience  and  the  variable 
bank-account,  the  man  with  the  hat  and  the  boots,  and 
the  privilege  of  voting  and  not  carrying  his  candidate  at 

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A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

the  general  elections  —  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to  sup- 
pose he  is  no  story-teller  at  all,  but  a  creature  as  matter 
of  fact  as  any  cheesemonger  or  any  cheese,  and  a  realist 
bemired  up  to  the  ears  in  actuality ;  so  that,  by  that  ac- 
count, the  whole  of  my  published  fiction  should  be  the 
single-handed  product  of  some  Brownie,  some  Familiar, 
some  unseen  collaborator,  whom  I  keep  locked  in  a 
back  garret,  while  I  get  all  the  praise  and  he  but  a  share 
(which  I  cannot  prevent  him  getting)  of  the  pudding. 
I  am  an  excellent  adviser,  something  like  Moliere's  ser- 
vant; I  pull  back  and  I  cut  down ;  and  I  dress  the  whole 
in  the  best  words  and  sentences  that  I  can  find  and  make ; 
I  hold  the  pen,  too;  and  I  do  the  sitting  at  the  table, 
which  is  about  the  worst  of  it;  and  when  all  is  done,  I 
make  up  the  manuscript  and  pay  for  the  registration ;  so 
that,  on  the  whole,  I  have  some  claim  to  share,  though 
not  so  largely  as  I  do,  in  the  profits  of  our  common  en- 
terprise. 

I  can  but  give  an  instance  or  so  of  what  part  is  done 
sleeping  and  what  part  awake,  and  leave  the  reader  to 
share  what  laurels  there  are,  at  his  own  nod,  between 
myself  and  my  collaborators ;  and  to  do  this  I  will  first 
take  a  book  that  a  number  of  persons  have  been  polite 
enough  to  read,  the  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  JekyU  and  Mr. 
Hyde.  I  had  long  been  trying  to  write  a  story  on  this 
subject,  to  find  a  body,  a  vehicle,  for  that  strong  sense 
of  man's  double  being  which  must  at  times  come  in 
upon  and  overwhelm  the  mind  of  every  thinking  crea- 
ture. I  had  even  written  one.  The  Travelling  Compan- 
ion, which  was  returned  by  an  editor  on  the  plea  that  it 
was  a  work  of  genius  and  indecent,  and  which  I  burned 
the  other  day  on  the  ground  that  it  was  not  a  work  of 

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A  CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

genius,  and  that  Jekyll  had  supplanted  it.  Then  came 
one  of  those  financial  fluctuations  to  which  (with  an 
elegant  modesty)  I  have  hitherto  referred  in  the  third 
person.  For  two  days  I  went  about  racking  my  brains 
for  a  plot  of  any  sort ;  and  on  the  second  night  I  dreamed 
the  scene  at  the  window,  and  a  scene  afterwards  split 
in  two,  in  which  Hyde,  pursued  for  some  crime,  took 
the  powder  and  underwent  the  change  in  the  presence 
of  his  pursuers.  All  the  rest  was  made  awake,  and 
consciously,  although  I  think  I  can  trace  in  much  of  it 
the  manner  of  my  Brownies.  The  meaning  of  the  tale 
is  therefore  mine,  and  had  long  pre-existed  in  my  gar- 
den of  Adonis,  and  tried  one  body  after  another  in 
vain ;  indeed,  I  do  most  of  the  morality,  worse  luck ! 
and  my  Brownies  have  not  a  rudiment  of  what  we  call 
a  conscience.  Mine,  too,  is  the  setting,  mine  the  char- 
acters. All  that  was  given  me  was  the  matter  of  three 
scenes,  and  the  central  idea  of  a  voluntary  change  be- 
coming involuntary.  Will  it  be  thought  ungenerous, 
after  I  have  been  so  liberally  ladling  out  praise  to  my  un- 
seen collaborators,  if  I  here  toss  them  over,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  into  the  arena  of  the  critics  }  For  the  business 
of  the  powders,  which  so  many  have  censured,  is,  I  am 
relieved  to  say,  not  mine  at  all  but  the  Brownies'.  Of 
another  tale,  in  case  the  reader  should  have  glanced  at 
it,  I  may  say  a  word :  the  not  very  defensible  story  of 
Olalla.  Here  the  court,  the  mother,  the  mother's  niche, 
Olalla,  Olalla's  chamber,  the  meetings  on  the  stair,  the 
broken  window,  the  ugly  scene  of  the  bite,  were  all  given 
me  in  bulk  and  detail  as  I  have  tried  to  write  them ;  to 
this  I  added  only  the  external  scenery  (for  in  my  dream  I 
never  was  beyond  the  court),  the  portrait,  the  characters 

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A   CHAPTER  ON   DREAMS 

of  Felipe  and  the  priest,  the  moral,  such  as  it  is,  and 
the  last  pages,  such  as,  alas !  they  are.  And  1  may  even 
say  that  in  this  case  the  moral  itself  was  given  me ;  for 
it  arose  immediately  on  a  comparison  of  the  mother  and 
the  daughter,  and  from  the  hideous  trick  of  atavism  in 
the  first.  Sometimes  a  parabolic  sense  is  still  more  un- 
deniably present  in  a  dream;  sometimes  1  cannot  but 
suppose  my  Brownies  have  been  aping  Bunyan,  and 
yet  in  no  case  with  what  would  possibly  be  called  a 
moral  in  a  tract;  never  with  the  ethical  narrowness; 
conveying  hints  instead  of  life's  larger  limitations  and 
that  sort  of  sense  which  we  seem  to  perceive  in  the  ara- 
besque of  time  and  space. 

For  the  most  part,  it  will  be  seen,  my  Brownies  are 
somewhat  fantastic,  like  their  stories  hot  and  hot,  full 
of  passion  and  the  picturesque,  alive  with  animating  in- 
cident; and  they  have  no  prejudice  against  the  super- 
natural. But  the  other  day  they  gave  me  a  surprise, 
entertaining  me  with  a  love-story,  a  little  April  comedy, 
which  I  ought  certainly  to  hand  over  to  the  author  of  A 
Chance  Acquaintance,  for  he  could  write  it  as  it  should 
be  written,  and  1  am  sure  (although  I  mean  to  try)  that  I 
cannot. — But  who  would  have  supposed  that  a  Brownie 
of  mine  should  invent  a  tale  for  Mr.  Howells  ? 


J05 


IX.    BEGGARS 


In  a  pleasant,  airy,  up-hill  country,  it  was  my  fortune 
when  I  was  young  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  cer- 
tain beggar.  I  call  him  beggar,  though  he  usually  al- 
lowed his  coat  and  his  shoes  (which  were  open-mouthed, 
indeed)  to  beg  for  him.  He  was  the  wreck  of  an  ath- 
letic man,  tall,  gaunt,  and  bronzed;  far  gone  in  con- 
sumption, with  that  disquieting  smile  of  the  mortally 
stricken  on  his  face ;  but  still  active  afoot,  still  with  the 
brisk  military  carriage,  the  ready  military  salute.  Three 
ways  led  through  this  piece  of  country;  and  as  I  was 
inconstant  in  my  choice,  1  believe  he  must  often  have 
awaited  me  in  vain.  But  often  enough,  he  caught  me ; 
often  enough,  from  some  place  of  ambush  by  the  road- 
side, he  would  spring  suddenly  forth  in  the  regulation 
attitude,  and  launching  at  once  into  his  inconsequential 
talk,  fall  into  step  with  me  upon  my  farther  course.  ''A 
fine  morning,  sir,  though  perhaps  a  trifle  inclining  to 
rain.  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir.  Why,  no,  sir,  I  don't 
feel  as  hearty  myself  as  I  could  wish,  but  I  am  keeping 
about  my  ordinary.  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you  on  the 
road,  sir.  I  assure  you  I  quite  look  forward  to  one  of 
our  little  conversations."     He  loved  the  sound  of  his 

266 


BEGGARS 

own  voice  inordinately,  and  though  (with  something  too 
off-hand  to  call  servility)  he  would  always  hasten  to 
agree  with  anything  you  said,  yet  he  could  never  suffer 
you  to  say  it  to  an  end.  By  what  transition  he  slid  to 
his  favourite  subject  I  have  no  memory;  but  we  had 
never  been  long  together  on  the  way  before  he  was 
dealing,  in  a  very  military  manner,  with  the  English 
poets.  ''Shelley  was  a  fine  poet,  sir,  though  a  trifle 
atheistical  in  his  opinions.  His  Queen  Mab,  sir,  is  quite 
an  atheistical  work.  Scott,  sir,  is  not  so  poetical  a 
writer.  With  the  works  of  Shakespeare  I  am  not  so 
well  acquainted,  but  he  was  a  fine  poet.  Keats — John 
Keats,  sir — he  was  a  very  fine  poet."  With  such  ref- 
erences, such  trivial  criticism,  such  loving  parade  of  his 
own  knowledge,  he  would  beguile  the  road,  striding 
forward  up-hill,  his  staff  now  clapped  to  the  ribs  of  his 
deep,  resonant  chest,  now  swinging  in  the  air  with  the 
remembered  jauntiness  of  the  private  soldier;  and  all 
the  while  his  toes  looking  out  of  his  boots,  and  his  shirt 
looking  out  of  his  elbows,  and  death  looking  out  of  his 
smile,  and  his  big,  crazy  frame  shaken  by  accesses  of 
cough. 

He  would  often  go  the  whole  way  home  with  me: 
often  to  borrow  a  book,  and  that  book  always  a  poet. 
Off  he  would  march,  to  continue  his  mendicant  rounds, 
with  the  volume  slipped  into  the  pocket  of  his  ragged 
coat ;  and  although  he  would  sometimes  keep  it  quite 
a  while,  yet  it  came  always  back  again  at  last,  not  much 
the  worse  for  its  travels  into  beggardom.  And  in  this 
way,  doubtless,  his  knowledge  grew  and  his  glib, 
random  criticism  took  a  wider  range.  But  my  library 
was  not  the  first  he  had  drawn  upon :  at  our  first  en- 

267  ^ 


BEGGARS 

counter,  he  was  already  brimful  of  Shelley  and  the  athe- 
istical Queen  Mab,  and  ' '  Keats  — John  Keats,  sir. "  And 
I  have  often  wondered  how  he  came  by  these  acquire- 
ments; just  as  I  often  wondered  how  he  fell  to  be  a 
beggar.  He  had  served  through  the  Mutiny  —  of  which 
(like  so  many  people)  he  could  tell  practically  nothing 
beyond  the  names  of  places,  and  that  it  was  ''difficult 
work,  sir,"  and  very  hot,  or  that  so-and-so  was  ''a  very 
fine  commander,  sir."  He  was  far  too  smart  a  man  to 
have  remained  a  private;  in  the  nature  of  things,  he  must 
have  won  his  stripes.  And  yet  here  he  was  without 
a  pension.  When  I  touched  on  this  problem,  he  would 
content  himself  with  diffidently  offering  me  advice. 
"A  man  should  be  very  careful  when  he  is  young,  sir. 
If  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so,  a  spirited  young  gentle- 
man like  yourself,  sir,  should  be  very  careful.  I  was 
perhaps  a  trifle  inclined  to  atheistical  opinions  myself." 
For  (perhaps  with  a  deeper  wisdom  than  we  are  in- 
clined in  these  days  to  admit)  he  plainly  bracketed  ag- 
nosticism with  beer  and  skittles. 

Keats — John  Keats,  sir, — and  Shelley  were  his  fa- 
vourite bards.  I  cannot  remember  if  I  tried  him  with 
Rossetti;  but  I  know  his  taste  to  a  hair,  and  if  ever  I  did, 
he  must  have  doted  on  that  author.  What  took  him 
was  a  richness  in  the  speech ;  he  loved  the  exotic,  the 
unexpected  word;  the  moving  cadence  of  a  phrase;  a 
vague  sense  of  emotion  (about  nothing)  in  the  very  let- 
ters of  the  alphabet:  the  romance  of  language.  His 
honest  head  was  very  nearly  empty,  his  intellect  like  a 
child's ;  and  when  he  read  his  favourite  authors,  he  can 
almost  never  have  understood  what  he  was  reading. 
Yet  the  taste  was  not  only  genuine,  it  was  exclusive;  I 


BEGGARS 

tried  in  vain  to  offer  him  novels ;  he  would  none  of  them ; 
he  cared  for  nothing  but  romantic  language  that  he 
could  not  understand.  The  case  may  be  commoner 
than  we  suppose.  I  am  reminded  of  a  lad  who  was 
laid  in  the  next  cot  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  a  public  hos- 
pital, and  who  was  no  sooner  installed  than  he  sent  out 
(perhaps  with  his  last  pence)  for  a  cheap  Shakespeare. 
My  friend  pricked  up  his  ears ;  fell  at  once  in  talk  with 
his  new  neighbour,  and  was  ready,  when  the  book  ar- 
rived, to  make  a  singular  discovery.  For  this  lover  of 
great  literature  understood  not  one  sentence  out  of 
twelve,  and  his  favourite  part  was  that  of  which  he  un- 
derstood the  least — the  inimitable,  mouth-filling  rodo- 
montade of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.  It  was  a  bright  day  in 
hospital  when  my  friend  expounded  the  sense  of  this  be- 
loved jargon :  a  task  for  which  I  am  willing  to  believe  my 
friend  was  very  fit,  though  I  can  never  regard  it  as  an 
easy  one.  I  know  indeed  a  point  or  two,  on  which  I 
would  gladly  question  Mr.  Shakespeare,  that  lover  of  big 
words,  could  he  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  or 
could  I  myself  climb  backward  to  the  spacious  days  of 
Elizabeth.  But  in  the  second  case,  I  should  most  likely 
pretermit  these  questionings,  and  take  my  place  instead 
in  the  pit  at  the  Blackfriars,  to  hear  the  actor  in  his 
favourite  part,  playing  up  to  Mr.  Burbage,  and  rolling 
out  —  as  I  seem  to  hear  him — with  a  ponderous  gusto  — 

"  Unhousel'd,  disappointed,  unanel'd." 

What  a  pleasant  chance,  if  we  could  go  there  in  a  party ! 
and  what  a  surprise  for  Mr.  Burbage,  when  the  ghost 
received  the  honours  of  the  evening! 

269 


BEGGARS 

As  for  my  old  soldier,  like  Mr.  Burbage  and  Mr. 
Shakespeare,  he  is  long  since  dead ;  and  now  lies  buried, 
I  suppose,  and  nameless  and  quite  forgotten,  in  some 
poor  city  graveyard. — But  not  for  me,  you  brave  heart, 
have  you  been  buried!  For  me,  you  are  still  afoot, 
tasting  the  sun  and  air,  and  striding  southward.  By 
the  groves  of  Comiston  and  beside  the  Hermitage  of 
Braid,  by  the  Hunters'  Tryst,  and  where  the  curlews 
and  plovers  cry  around  Fairmilehead,  I  see  and  hear 
you,  stalwartly  carrying  your  deadly  sickness,  cheer- 
fully discoursing  of  uncomprehended  poets. 


The  thought  of  the  old  soldier  recalls  that  of  another 
tramp,  his  counterpart.  This  was  a  little,  lean,  and 
fiery  man,  with  the  eyes  of  a  dog  and  the  face  of  a 
gipsy ;  whom  I  found  one  morning  encamped  with  his 
wife  and  children  and  his  grinder's  wheel,  beside  the 
burn  of  Kinnaird.  To  this  beloved  dell  I  went,  at  that 
time,  daily ;  and  daily  the  knife-grinder  and  I  (for  as  long 
as  his  tent  continued  pleasantly  to  interrupt  my  little 
wilderness)  sat  on  two  stones,  and  smoked,  and  plucked 
grass,  and  talked  to  the  tune  of  the  brown  water.  His 
children  were  mere  whelps,  they  fought  and  bit  among 
the  fern  like  vermin.  His  wife  was  a  mere  squaw ;  I 
saw  her  gather  brush  and  tend  the  kettle,  but  she  never 
ventured  to  address  her  lord  while  I  was  present.  The 
tent  was  a  mere  gipsy  hovel,  like  a  sty  for  pigs.  But 
the  grinder  himself  had  the  fine  self-sufficiency  and 
grave  politeness  of  the  hunter  and  the  savage;  he  did 
me  the  honours  of  this  dell,  which  had  been  mine  but 

270 


BEGGARS 

the  day  before,  took  me  far  into  the  secrets  of  his  life, 
and  used  me  (I  am  proud  to  remember)  as  a  friend. 

Like  my  old  soldier,  he  was  far  gone  in  the  national 
complaint.  Unlike  him,  he  had  a  vulgar  taste  in  letters ; 
scarce  flying  higher  than  the  story  papers;  probably 
finding  no  difference,  certainly  seeking  none,  between 
Tannahill  and  Burns;  his  noblest  thoughts,  whether  of 
poetry  or  music,  adequately  embodied  in  that  some- 
what obvious  ditty, 

"  Will  ye  gang,  lassie,  gang 
To  the  braes  o'  Balquidder:  " 

— which  is  indeed  apt  to  echo  in  the  ears  of  Scottish 
children,  and  to  him,  in  view  of  his  experience,  must 
have  found  a  special  directness  of  address.  But  if  he 
had  no  fine  sense  of  poetry  in  letters,  he  felt  with  a  deep 
joy  the  poetry  of  life.  You  should  have  heard  him  speak 
of  what  he  loved ;  of  the  tent  pitched  beside  the  talking 
water;  of  the  stars  overhead  at  night;  of  the  blest  re- 
turn of  morning,  the  peep  of  day  over  the  moors,  the 
awaking  birds  among  the  birches;  how  he  abhorred 
the  long  winter  shut  in  cities;  and  with  what  delight, 
at  the  return  of  the  spring,  he  once  more  pitched  his 
camp  in  the  living  out-of-doors.  But  we  were  a  pair 
of  tramps;  and  to  you,  who  are  doubtless  sedentary 
and  a  consistent  first-class  passenger  in  life,  he  would 
scarce  have  laid  himself  so  open; — to  you,  he  might 
have  been  content  to  tell  his  story  of  a  ghost — that  of  a 
buccaneer  with  his  pistols  as  he  lived  —  whom  he  had 
once  encountered  in  a  seaside  cave  near  Buckie;  and 
that  would  have  been  enough,  for  that  would  have 
shown  you  the  mettle  of  the  man.     Here  was  a  piece 

271 


BEGGARS 

of  experience  solidly  and  livingly  built  up  in  words, 
here  was  a  story  created,  teres  atque  rotundus. 

And  to  think  of  the  old  soldier,  that  lover  of  the  lit- 
erary bards!  He  had  visited  stranger  spots  than  any 
seaside  cave ;  encountered  men  more  terrible  than  any 
spirit;  done  and  dared  and  suffered  in  that  incredible, 
unsung  epic  of  the  Mutiny  War;  played  his  part  with 
the  field  force  of  Delhi,  beleaguering  and  beleaguered ; 
shared  in  that  enduring,  savage  anger  and  contempt  of 
death  and  decency  that,  for  long  months  together,  be- 
devil'd  and  inspired  the  army;  was  hurled  to  and  fro  in 
the  battle-smoke  of  the  assault;  was  there,  perhaps, 
where  Nicholson  fell;  was  there  when  the  attacking 
column,  with  hell  upon  every  side,  found  the  soldier's 
enemy — strong  drink,  and  the  lives  of  tens  of  thousands 
trembled  in  the  scale,  and  the  fate  of  the  flag  of  Eng- 
land staggered.  And  of  all  this  he  had  no  more  to  say 
than  'Miot  work,  sir,"  or  *'the  army  suffered  a  great 
deal,  sir,"  or  ''I  believe  General  Wilson,  sir,  was  not 
very  highly  thought  of  in  the  papers."  His  life  was 
naught  to  him,  the  vivid  pages  of  experience  quite 
blank:  in  words  his  pleasure  lay — melodious,  agitated 
words — printed  words,  about  that  which  he  had  never 
seen  and  was  connatally  incapable  of  comprehending. 
We  have  here  two  temperaments  face  to  face ;  both  un- 
trained, unsophisticated,  surprised  (we  may  say)  in  the 
tgg\  both  boldly  charactered: — that  of  the  artist,  the 
lover  and  artificer  of  words;  that  of  the  maker,  the 
seeer,  the  lover  and  forger  of  experience.  If  the  one 
had  a  daughter  and  the  other  had  a  son,  and  these  mar- 
ried, might  not  some  illustrious  writer  count  descent 
from  the  beggar-soldier  and  the  needy  knife-grinder? 

272 


BEGGARS 


III 


Every  one  lives  by  selling  something,  whatever  be  his 
right  to  it.  The  burglar  sells  at  the  same  time  his  own 
skill  and  courage  and  my  silver  plate  (the  whole  at  the 
most  moderate  figure)  to  a  Jew  receiver.  The  bandit 
sells  the  traveller  an  article  of  prime  necessity :  that  trav- 
eller's life.  And  as  for  the  old  soldier,  who  stands  for 
central  mark  to  my  capricious  figures  of  eight,  he  dealt 
in  a  specialty ;  for  he  was  the  only  beggar  in  the  world 
who  ever  gave  me  pleasure  for  my  money.  He  had 
learned  a  school  of  manners  in  the  barracks  and  had  the 
sense  to  cling  to  it,  accosting  strangers  with  a  regi- 
mental freedom,  thanking  patrons  with  a  merely  regi- 
mental difference,  sparing  you  at  once  the  tragedy  of  his 
position  and  the  embarrassment  of  yours.  There  was 
not  one  hint  about  him  of  the  beggar's  emphasis,  the 
outburst  of  revolting  gratitude,  the  rant  and  cant,  the 
**  God  bless  you,  Kind,  Kind  gentleman,"  which  insults 
the  smallness  of  your  alms  by  disproportionate  vehe- 
mence, which  is  so  notably  false,  which  would  be  so  un- 
bearable if  it  were  true.  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to 
suppose  this  reading  of  the  beggar's  part,  a  survival  of 
the  old  days  when  Shakespeare  was  intoned  upon  the 
stage  and  mourners  keened  beside  the  death-bed;  to 
think  that  we  cannot  now  accept  these  strong  emotions 
unless  they  be  uttered  in  the  just  note  of  life ;  nor  (save 
in  the  pulpit)  endure  these  gross  conventions.  They 
wound  us,  I  am  tempted  to  say,  like  mockery ;  the  high 
voice  of  keening  (as  it  yet  lingers  on)  strikes  in  the  face 
of  sorrow  like  a  buffet;  and  the  rant  and  cant  of  the 
staled  beggar  stirs  in  us  a  shudder  of  disgust.     But  the 

273 


BEGGARS 

fact  disproves  these  amateur  opinions.  The  beggar  lives 
by  his  knowledge  of  the  average  man.  He  knows  what 
he  is  about  when  he  bandages  his  head,  and  hires  and 
drugs  a  babe,  and  poisons  life  with  Poor  Mary  Ann  or 
Long,  long  ago ;  he  knows  what  he  is  about  when  he 
loads  the  critical  ear  and  sickens  the  nice  conscience 
with  intolerable  thanks ;  they  know  what  they  are  about, 
he  and  his  crew,  when  they  pervade  the  slums  of  cities, 
ghastly  parodies  of  suffering,  hateful  parodies  of  grati- 
tude. This  trade  can  scarce  be  called  an  imposition ;  it 
has  been  so  blown  upon  with  exposures ;  it  flaunts  its 
fraudulence  so  nakedly.  We  pay  them  as  we  pay  those 
who  show  us,  in  huge  exaggeration,  the  monsters  of 
our  drinking-water;  or  those  who  daily  predict  the  fall 
of  Britain.  We  pay  them  for  the  pain  they  inflict,  pay 
them,  and  wince,  and  hurry  on.  And  truly  there  is 
nothing  that  can  shake  the  conscience  like  a  beggar's 
thanks;  and  that  polity  in  which  such  protestations  can 
be  purchased  for  a  shilling,  seems  no  scene  for  an  hon- 
est man. 

Are  there,  then,  we  may  be  asked,  no  genuine  beg- 
gars ?  And  the  answer  is.  Not  one.  My  old  soldier 
was  a  humbug  like  the  rest;  his  ragged  boots  were,  in 
the  stage  phrase,  properties;  whole  boots  were  given 
him  again  and  again,  and  always  gladly  accepted ;  and 
the  next  day,  there  he  was  on  the  road  as  usual,  with 
toes  exposed.  His  boots  were  his  method ;  they  were 
the  man's  trade;  without  his  boots  he  would  have 
starved ;  he  did  not  live  by  charity,  but  by  appealing  to 
a  gross  taste  in  the  public,  which  loves  the  limelight  on 
the  actor's  face,  and  the  toes  out  of  the  beggar's  boots. 
There  is  a  true  poverty,  which  no  one  sees :  a  false  and 

274 


BEGGARS 

merely  mimetic  poverty,  which  usurps  its  place  and 
dress,  and  lives  and  above  all  drinks,  on  the  fruits  of  the 
usurpation.  The  true  poverty  does  not  go  into  the 
streets ;  the  banker  may  rest  assured,  he  has  never  put  a 
penny  in  its  hand.  The  self-respecting  poor  beg  from 
each  other;  never  from  the  rich.  To  live  in  the  frock- 
coated  ranks  of  life,  to  hear  canting  scenes  of  gratitude 
rehearsed  for  twopence,  a  man  might  suppose  that  giving 
was  a  thing  gone  out  of  fashion ;  yet  it  goes  forward  on 
a  scale  so  great  as  to  fill  me  with  surprise.  In  the  houses 
of  the  working  class,  all  day  long  there  will  be  a  foot 
upon  the  stair;  all  day  long  there  will  be  a  knocking  at 
the  doors;  beggars  come,  beggars  go,  without  stint, 
hardly  with  intermission,  from  morning  till  night;  and 
meanwhile,  in  the  same  city  and  but  a  few  streets  off, 
the  castles  of  the  rich  stand  unsummoned.  Get  the  tale 
of  any  honest  tramp,  you  will  find  it  was  always  the 
poor  who  helped  him;  get  the  truth  from  any  work- 
man who  has  met  misfortunes,  it  was  always  next  door 
that  he  would  go  for  help,  or  only  with  such  exceptions 
as  are  said  to  prove  a  rule;  look  at  the  course  of  the 
mimetic  beggar,  it  is  through  the  poor  quarters  that  he 
trails  his  passage,  showing  his  bandages  to  every  win- 
dow, piercing  even  to  the  attics  with  his  nasal  song. 
Here  is  a  remarkable  state  of  things  in  our  Christian 
commonwealths,  that  the  poor  only  should  be  asked  to 
give. 

IV 

There  is  a  pleasant  tale  of  some  worthless,  phrasing 
Frenchman,  who  was  taxed  with  ingratitude:  "  11  faut 
savoir  garder  Vindependance  du  coeur/'  cried  he.     I 

275 


BEGGARS 

own  I  feel  with  him.  Gratitude  without  familiarity, 
gratitude  otherwise  than  as  a  nameless  elem.ent  in  a 
friendship,  is  a  thing  so  near  to  hatred  that  I  do  not  care 
to  split  the  diiference.  Until  I  find  a  man  who  is  pleased 
to  receive  obligations,  I  shall  continue  to  question  the 
tact  of  those  who  are  eager  to  confer  them.  What  an  art 
it  is,  to  give,  even  to  our  nearest  friends!  and  what  a 
test  of  manners,  to  receive !  How,  upon  either  side,  we 
smuggle  away  the  obligation,  blushing  for  each  other; 
how  bluff  and  dull  we  make  the  giver;  how  hasty,  how 
falsely  cheerful,  the  receiver!  And  yet  an  act  of  such 
difficulty  and  distress  between  near  friends,  it  is  sup- 
posed we  can  perform  to  a  total  stranger  and  leave  the 
man  transfixed  with  grateful  emotions.  The  last  thing 
you  can  do  to  a  man  is  to  burthen  him  with  an  obliga- 
tion, and  it  is  what  we  propose  to  begin  with !  But  let 
us  not  be  deceived :  unless  he  is  totally  degraded  to  his 
trade,  anger  jars  in  his  inside,  and  he  grates  his  teeth  at 
our  gratuity. 

We  should  wipe  two  words  from  our  vocabulary: 
gratitude  and  charity.  In  real  life,  help  is  given  out  of 
friendship,  or  it  is  not  valued;  it  is  received  from  the 
hand  of  friendship,  or  it  is  resented.  We  are  all  too 
proud  to  take  a  naked  gift :  we  must  seem  to  pay  it,  if 
in  nothing  else,  then  with  the  delights  of  our  society. 
Here,  then,  is  the  pitiful  fix  of  the  rich  man ;  here  is  that 
needle's  eye  in  which  he  stuck  already  in  the  days 
of  Christ,  and  still  sticks  to-day,  firmer,  if  possible, 
than  ever:  that  he  has  the  money  and  lacks  the  love 
which  should  make  his  money  acceptable.  Here  and 
now,  just  as  of  old  in  Palestine,  he  has  the  rich  to  dinner, 
it  is  with  the  rich  that  he  takes  his  pleasure :  and  when 

276 


BEGGARS 

his  turn  comes  to  be  charitable,  he  looks  In  vain  for  a  re- 
cipient. His  friends  are  not  poor,  they  do  not  want ;  the 
poor  are  not  his  friends,  they  will  not  take.  To  whom 
is  he  to  give  ?  Where  to  find  —  note  this  phrase  —  the 
Deserving  Poor  ?  Charity  is  (what  they  call)  central- 
ised; offices  are  hired;  societies  founded,  with  secre- 
taries paid  or  unpaid :  the  hunt  of  the  Deserving  Poor 
goes  merrily  forward.  I  think  it  will  take  more  than 
a  merely  human  secretary  to  disinter  that  character. 
What !  a  class  that  is  to  be  in  want  from  no  fault  of  its 
own,  and  yet  greedily  eager  to  receive  from  strangers; 
and  to  be  quite  respectable,  and  at  the  same  time  quite 
devoid  of  self-respect ;  and  play  the  most  delicate  part  of 
friendship,  and  yet  never  be  seen ;  and  wear  the  form 
of  man,  and  yet  fly  in  the  face  of  all  the  laws  of  human 
nature :  —  and  all  this,  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  belly-god 
Burgess  through  a  needle's  eye!  O,  let  him  stick,  by  all 
means:  and  let  his  polity  tumble  in  the  dust;  and  let  his 
epitaph  and  all  his  literature  (of  which  my  own  works 
begin  to  form  no  inconsiderable  part)  be  abolished  even 
from  the  history  of  man !  For  a  fool  of  this  monstrosity 
ofdulness,  there  can  be  no  salvation:  and  the  fool  who 
looked  for  the  elixir  of  life  was  an  angel  of  reason  to  the 
fool  who  looks  for  the  Deserving  Poor! 


And  yet  there  is  one  course  which  the  unfortunate 
gentleman  may  take.  He  may  subscribe  to  pay  the 
taxes.  There  were  the  true  charity,  impartial  and  im- 
personal, cumbering  none  with  obligation,  helping  all. 
There  were  a  destination  for  loveless  gifts ;  there  were 

277 


BEGGARS 

the  way  to  reach  the  pocket  of  the  deserving  poor,  and 
yet  save  the  time  of  secretaries !  But,  alas !  there  is 
no  colour  of  romance  in  such  a  course;  and  people 
nowhere  demand  the  picturesque  so  much  as  in  their 
virtues. 


378 


X.   LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  WHO  PRO- 
POSES TO  EMBRACE  THE  CAREER  OF  ART 

With  the  agreeable  frankness  of  youth,  you  address 
me  on  a  point  of  some  practical  importance  to  yourself 
and  (it  is  even  cortceivable)  of  some  gravity  to  the  world : 
Should  you  or  should  you  not  become  an  artist  ?  It  is 
one  which  you  must  decide  entirely  for  yourself;  all  that 
I  can  do  is  to  bring  under  your  notice  some  of  the  ma- 
terials of  that  decision ;  and  I  will  begin,  as  I  shall  pro- 
bably conclude  also,  by  assuring  you  that  all  depends 
on  the  vocation. 

To  know  what  you  like  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom 
and  of  old  age.  Youth  is  wholly  experimental.  The 
essence  and  charm  of  that  unquiet  and  delightful  epoch 
is  ignorance  of  self  as  well  as  ignorance  of  life.  These 
two  unknowns  the  young  man  brings  together  again 
and  again,  now  in  the  airiest  touch,  now  with  a  bitter 
hug ;  now  with  exquisite  pleasure,  now  with  cutting 
pain ;  but  never  with  indifference,  to  which  he  is  a  total 
stranger,  and  never  with  that  near  kinsman  of  indiffer- 
ence, contentment.  If  he  be  a  youth  of  dainty  senses 
or  a  brain  easily  heated,  the  interest  of  this  series  of  ex- 
periments grows  upon  him  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
pleasure  he  receives.  It  is  not  beauty  that  he  loves,  nor 
pleasure  that  he  seeks,  though  he  may  think  so ;  his  de- 

379 


LETTER  TO   A   YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

sign  and  his  sufficient  reward  is  to  verify  his  own  ex- 
istence and  taste  the  variety  of  human  fate.  To  him, 
before  the  razor-edge  of  curiosity  is  dulled,  all  that  is  not 
actual  living  and  the  hot  chase  of  experience  wears  a 
face  of  a  disgusting  dryness  difficult  to  recall  in  later 
days ;  or  if  there  be  any  exception  —  and  here  destiny 
steps  in  —  it  is  in  those  moments  when,  wearied  or  sur- 
feited of  the  primary  activity  of  the  senses,  he  calls  up 
before  memory  the  image  of  transacted  pains  and  plea- 
sures. Thus  it  is  that  such  an  one  shies  from  all  cut- 
and-dry  professions,  and  inclines  insensibly  toward 
that  career  of  art  which  consists  only  in  the  tasting  and 
recording  of  experience. 

This,  which  is  not  so  much  a  vocation  for  art  as  an 
impatience  of  all  other  honest  trades,  frequently  exists 
alone ;  and  so  existing,  it  will  pass  gently  away  in  the 
course  of  years.  Emphatically,  it  is  not  to  be  regarded; 
it  is  not  a  vocation,  but  a  temptation ;  and  when  your 
father  the  other  day  so  fiercely  and  (in  my  view)  so 
properly  discouraged  your  ambition,  he  was  recalling 
not  improbably  some  similar  passage  in  his  own  experi- 
ence. For  the  temptation  is  perhaps  nearly  as  common 
as  the  vocation  is  rare.  But  again  we  have  vocations 
which  are  imperfect;  we  have  men  whose  minds  are 
bound  up,  not  so  much  in  any  art,  as  in  the  general  ars 
artium  and  common  base  of  all  creative  work;  who 
will  now  dip  into  painting,  and  now  study  counterpoint, 
and  anon  will  be  inditing  a  sonnet :  all  these  with  equal 
interest,  all  often  with  genuine  knowledge.  And  of 
this  temper,  when  it  stands  alone,  I  find  it  difficult  to 
speak;  but  I  should  counsel  such  an  one  to  take  to  let- 
ters, for  in  literature  (which  drags  with  so  wide  a  net) 

280 


LETTER  TO   A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

all  his  information  may  be  found  some  day  useful,  and 
if  he  should  go  on  as  he  has  begun,  and  turn  at  last  into 
the  critic,  he  will  have  learned  to  use  the  necessary  tools. 
Lastly  we  come  to  those  vocations  which  are  at  once 
decisive  and  precise ;  to  the  men  who  are  born  with  the 
love  of  pigments,  the  passion  of  drawing,  the  gift  of 
music,  or  the  impulse  to  create  with  words,  just  as 
other  and  perhaps  the  same  men  are  born  with  the  love 
of  hunting,  or  the  sea,  or  horses,  or  the  turning-lathe. 
These  are  predestined ;  if  a  man  love  the  labour  of  any 
trade,  apart  from  any  question  of  success  or  fame,  the 
gods  have  called  him.  He  may  have  the  general  voca- 
tion too :  he  may  have  a  taste  for  all  the  arts,  and  I  think 
he  often  has ;  but  the  mark  of  his  calling  is  this  laborious 
partiality  for  one,  this  inextinguishable  zest  in  its  tech- 
nical successes,  and  (perhaps  above  all)  a  certain  can- 
dour of  mind,  to  take  his  very  trifling  enterprise  with  a 
gravity  that  would  befit  the  cares  of  empire,  and  to  think 
the  smallest  improvement  worth  accomplishing  at  any 
expense  of  time  and  industry.  The  book,  the  statue, 
the  sonata,  must  be  gone  upon  with  the  unreasoning 
good  faith  and  the  unflagging  spirit  of  children  at  their 
play.  Is  it  worth  doing  ?  —  when  it  shall  have  occurred 
to  any  artist  to  ask  himself  that  question,  it  is  implicitly 
answered  in  the  negative.  It  does  not  occur  to  the  child 
as  he  plays  at  being  a  pirate  on  the  dining-room  sofa, 
nor  to  the  hunter  as  he  pursues  his  quarry ;  and  the  can- 
dour of  the  one  and  the  ardour  of  the  other  should  be 
united  in  the  bosom  of  the  artist. 

If  you  recognise  in  yourself  some  such  decisive  taste, 
there  is  no  room  for  hesitation :  follow  your  bent.  And 
observe  (lest  I  should  too  much  discourage  you)  that  the 

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LETTER  TO   A   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN 

disposition  does  not  usually  burn  so  brightly  at  the  first, 
or  rather  not  so  constantly.  Habit  and  practice  sharpen 
gifts ;  the  necessity  of  toil  grows  less  disgusting,  grows 
even  welcome,  in  the  course  of  years ;  a  small  taste  (if 
it  be  only  genuine)  waxes  with  indulgence  into  an  ex- 
clusive passion.  Enough,  just  now,  if  you  can  look 
back  over  a  fair  interval,  and  see  that  your  chosen  art 
has  a  little  more  than  held  its  own  among  the  thronging 
interests  of  youth.  Time  will  do  the  rest,  if  devotion 
help  it ;  and  soon  your  every  thought  will  be  engrossed 
in  that  beloved  occupation. 

But  even  with  devotion,  you  may  remind  me,  even 
with  unfaltering  and  delighted  industry,  many  thousand 
artists  spend  their  lives,  if  the  result  be  regarded,  utterly 
in  vain :  a  thousand  artists,  and  never  one  work  of  art. 
But  the  vast  mass  of  mankind  are  incapable  of  doing 
anything  reasonably  well,  art  among  the  rest.  The 
worthless  artist  would  not  improbably  have  been  a  quite 
incompetent  baker.  And  the  artist,  even  if  he  does  not 
amuse  the  public,  amuses  himself;  so  that  there  will 
always  be  one  man  the  happier  for  his  vigils.  This  is 
the  practical  side  of  art:  its  inexpugnable  fortress  for 
the  true  practitioner.  The  direct  returns  —  the  wages 
of  the  trade  —  are  small,  but  the  indirect — the  wages 
of  the  life  —  are  incalculably  great.  No  other  business 
offers  a  man  his  daily  bread  upon  such  joyful  terms. 
The  soldier  and  the  explorer  have  moments  of  a  wor- 
thier excitement,  but  they  are  purchased  by  cruel  hard- 
ships and  periods  of  tedium  that  beggar  language.  In 
the  life  of  the  artist  there  need  be  no  hour  without  its 
pleasure.  I  take  the  author,  with  whose  career  I  am 
best  acquainted ;  and  it  is  true  he  works  in  a  rebellious 

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LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

material,  and  that  the  act  of  writing  is  cramped  and 
trying  both  to  the  eyes  and  the  temper;  but  remark  him 
in  his  study,  when  matter  crowds  upon  him  and  words 
are  not  wanting — in  what  a  continual  series  of  small 
successes  time  flows  by ;  with  what  a  sense  of  power 
as  of  one  moving  mountains,  he  marshals  his  petty 
characters ;  with  what  pleasures,  both  of  the  ear  and 
eye,  he  sees  his  airy  structure  growing  on  the  page; 
and  how  he  labours  in  a  craft  to  which  the  whole  ma- 
terial of  his  life  is  tributary,  and  which  opens  a  door  to 
all  his  tastes,  his  loves,  his  hatreds,  and  his  convictions, 
so  that  what  he  writes  is  only  what  he  longed  to  utter. 
He  may  have  enjoyed  many  things  in  this  big,  tragic 
playground  of  the  world;  but  what  shall  he  have  en- 
joyed more  fully  than  a  morning  of  successful  work  ? 
Suppose  it  ill  paid :  the  wonder  is  it  should  be  paid  at 
all.  Other  men  pay,  and  pay  dearly,  for  pleasures  less 
desirable. 

Nor  will  the  practice  of  art  afford  you  pleasure  only ; 
it  affords  besides  an  admirable  training.  For  the  artist 
works  entirely  upon  honour.  The  public  knows  little 
or  nothing  of  those  merits  in  the  quest  of  which  you 
are  condemned  to  spend  the  bulk  of  your  endeavours. 
Merits  of  design,  the  merit  of  first-hand  energy,  the 
merit  of  a  certain  cheap  accomplishment  which  a  man 
of  the  artistic  temper  easily  acquires  —  these  they  can 
recognise,  and  these  they  value.  But  to  those  more 
exquisite  refinements  of  proficiency  and  finish,  which 
the  artist  so  ardently  desires  and  so  keenly  feels,  for 
which  (in  the  vigorous  words  of  Balzac)  he  must  toil 
'*  like  a  miner  buried  in  a  landslip,"  for  which,  day  after 
day,  he  recasts  and  revises  and  rejects — the  gross  mas^ 

28^ 


LETTER  TO  A   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN 

of  the  public  must  be  ever  blind.  To  those  lost  pains, 
suppose  you  attain  the  highest  pitch  of  merit,  posterity 
may  possibly  do  justice ;  suppose,  as  is  so  probable,  you 
fail  by  even  a  hair's  breadth  of  the  highest,  rest  certain 
they  shall  never  be  observed.  Under  the  shadow  of 
this  cold  thought,  alone  in  his  studio,  the  artist  must 
preserve  from  day  to  day  his  constancy  to  the  ideal.  It 
is  this  which  makes  his  life  noble;  it  is  by  this  that  the 
practice  of  his  craft  strengthens  and  matures  his  char- 
acter; it  is  for  this  that  even  the  serious  countenance  of 
the  great  emperor  was  turned  approvingly  (if  only  for 
a  moment)  on  the  followers  of  Apollo,  and  that  sternly 
gentle  voice  bade  the  artist  cherish  his  art. 

And  here  there  fall  two  warnings  to  be  made.  First, 
if  you  are  to  continue  to  be  a  law  to  yourself,  you  must 
beware  of  the  first  signs  of  laziness.  This  idealism  in 
honesty  can  only  be  supported  by  perpetual  effort;  the 
standard  is  easily  lowered,  the  artist  who  says  ''  It  will 
do, ' '  is  on  the  downward  path ;  three  or  four  pot-boilers 
are  enough  at  times  (above  all  at  wrong  times)  to  falsify 
a  talent,  and  by  the  practice  of  journalism  a  man  runs 
the  risk  of  becoming  wedded  to  cheap  finish.  This  is 
the  danger  on  the  one  side;  there  is  not  less  upon  the 
other.  The  consciousness  of  how  much  the  artist  is 
(and  must  be)  a  law  to  himself,  debauches  the  small 
heads.  Perceiving  recondite  merits  very  hard  to  at- 
tain, making  or  swallowing  artistic  formulae,  or  perhaps 
falling  in  love  with  some  particular  proficiency  of  his 
own,  many  artists  forget  the  end  of  all  art :  to  please. 
It  is  doubtless  tempting  to  exclaim  against  the  ignorant 
bourgeois ;  yet  it  should  not  be  forgotten,  it  is  he  who  is 
to  pay  us,  and  that  (surely  on  the  face  of  it)  for  services 

284 


LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

that  he  shall  desire  to  have  performed.  Here  also,  if 
properly  considered,  there  is  a  question  of  transcen- 
dental honesty.  To  give  the  public  what  they  do  not 
want,  and  yet  expect  to  be  supported :  we  have  there 
a  strange  pretension,  and  yet  not  uncommon,  above  all 
with  painters.  The  first  duty  in  this  world  is  for  a  man 
to  pay  his  way ;  when  that  is  quite  accomplished,  he 
may  plunge  into  what  eccentricity  he  likes;  but  em- 
phatically not  till  then.  Till  then,  he  must  pay  assid- 
uous court  to  the  bourgeois  who  carries  the  purse.  And 
if  in  the  course  of  these  capitulations  he  shall  falsify  his 
talent,  it  can  never  have  been  a  strong  one,  and  he  will 
have  preserved  a  better  thing  than  talent  —  character. 
Or  if  he  be  of  a  mind  so  independent  that  he  cannot 
stoop  to  this  necessity,  one  course  is  yet  open :  he  can 
desist  from  art,  and  follow  some  more  manly  way  of 
life. 

I  speak  of  a  more  manly  way  of  life,  it  is  a  point  on 
which  I  must  be  frank.  To  live  by  a  pleasure  is  not  a 
high  calling;  it  involves  patronage,  however  veiled;  it 
numbers  the  artist,  however  ambitious,  along  with 
dancing  girls  and  billiard  markers.  The  French  have  a 
romantic  evasion  for  one  employment,  and  call  its  prac- 
titioners the  Daughters  of  Joy.  The  artist  is  of  the  same 
family,  he  is  of  the  Sons  of  Joy,  chose  his  trade  to  please 
himself,  gains  his  livelihood  by  pleasing  others,  and  has 
parted  with  something  of  the  sterner  dignity  of  man. 
Journals  but  a  little  while  ago  declaimed  against  the 
Tennyson  peerage;  and  this  Son  of  Joy  was  blamed  for 
condescension  when  he  followed  the  example  of  Lord 
Lawrence  and  Lord  Cairns  and  Lord  Clyde.  The  poet 
was  more  happily  inspired ;  with  a  better  modesty  he  ac- 

285 


LETTER  TO   A   YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

cepted  the  honour;  and  anonymous  journalists  have  not 
yet  (if  I  am  to  believe  them)  recovered  the  vicarious  dis- 
grace to  their  profession.  When  it  comes  to  their  turn, 
these  gentlemen  can  do  themselves  more  justice ;  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  think  of  it;  for  to  my  barbarian  eyesight, 
even  Lord  Tennyson  looks  somewhat  out  of  place  in 
that  assembly.  There  should  be  no  honours  for  the 
artist;  he  has  already,  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  more 
than  his  share  of  the  rewards  of  life;  the  honours  are 
pre-empted  for  other  trades,  less  agreeable  and  perhaps 
more  useful. 

But  the  devil  in  these  trades  of  pleasing  is  to  fail  to 
please.  In  ordinary  occupations,  a  man  offers  to  do  a 
certain  thing  or  to  produce  a  certain  article  with  a  merely 
conventional  accomplishment,  a  design  in  which  (we 
may  almost  say)  it  is  difficult  to  fail.  But  the  artist  steps 
forth  out  of  the  crowd  and  proposes  to  delight :  an  im- 
pudent design,  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  fail  without 
odious  circumstances.  The  poor  Daughter  of  Joy,  car- 
rying her  smiles  and  finery  quite  unregarded  through 
the  crowd,  makes  a  figure  which  it  is  impossible  to  re- 
call without  a  wounding  pity.  She  is  the  type  of  the 
unsuccessful  artist.  The  actor,  the  dancer,  and  the  singer 
must  appear  like  her  in  person,  and  drain  publicly  the 
cup  of  failure.  But  though  the  rest  of  us  escape  this 
crowning  bitterness  of  the  pillory,  we  all  court  in  essence 
the  same  humiliation.  We  all  profess  to  be  able  to  de- 
light. And  how  few  of  us  are!  We  all  pledge  our- 
selves to  be  able  to  continue  to  delight.  And  the  day 
will  come  to  each,  and  even  to  the  most  admired,  when 
the  ardour  shall  have  declined  and  the  cunning  shall  be 
lost,  and  he  shall  sit  by  his  deserted  booth  ashamed. 

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LETTER  TO  A   YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

Then  shall  he  see  himself  condemned  to  do  work  for 
which  he  blushes  to  take  payment.  Then  (as  if  his  lot 
were  not  already  cruel)  he  must  lie  exposed  to  the  gibes 
of  the  wreckers  of  the  press,  who  earn  a  little  bitter 
bread  by  the  condemnation  of  trash  which  they  have 
not  read,  and  the  praise  of  excellence  which  they  cannot 
understand. 

And  observe  that  this  seems  almost  the  necessary  end 
at  least  of  writers.  Les  Blancs  et  les  Bleus  (for  instance) 
is  of  an  order  of  merit  very  different  from  Le  VicomU  de 
Bragelonne  ;  and  if  any  gentleman  can  bear  to  spy  upon 
the  nakedness  of  CiMtle  Dangerom^  his  name  I  think  is 
Ham :  let  it  be  enough  for  the  rest  of  us  to  read  of  it 
(not  without  tears)  in  the  pages  of  Lockhart.  Thus  in 
old  age,  when  occupation  and  comfort  are  most  needful, 
the  writer  must  lay  aside  at  once  his  pastime  and  his 
breadwinner.  The  painter  indeed,  if  he  succeed  at  all 
in  engaging  the  attention  of  the  public,  gains  great  sums 
and  can  stand  to  his  easel  until  a  great  age  without  dis- 
honourable failure.  The  writer  has  the  double  misfortune 
to  be  ill-paid  while  he  can  work,  and  to  be  incapable  of 
working  when  he  is  old.  It  is  thus  a  way  of  life  which 
conducts  directly  to  a  false  position. 

For  the  writer  (in  spite  of  notorious  examples  to  the 
contrary)  must  look  to  be  ill-paid.  Tennyson  and 
Montepin  make  handsome  livelihoods ;  but  we  cannot  all 
hope  to  be  Tennyson,  and  we  do  not  all  perhaps  desire 
to  be  Montepin.  If  you  adopt  an  art  to  be  your  trade, 
weed  your  mind  at  the  outset  of  all  desire  of  money. 
What  you  may  decently  expect,  if  you  have  some  talent 
and  much  industry,  is  such  an  income  as  a  clerk  will 
earn  with  a  tenth  or  perhaps  a  twentieth  of  your  nervous 

287 


LETTER  TO  A   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN 

output.  Nor  have  you  the  right  to  look  for  more;  in 
the  wages  of  the  life,  not  in  the  wages  of  the  trade,  lies 
your  reward ;  the  work  is  here  the  wages.  It  will  be 
seen  I  have  little  sympathy  with  the  common  lamenta- 
tions of  the  artist  class.  Perhaps  they  do  not  remember 
the  hire  of  the  field  labourer;  or  do  they  think  no  par- 
allel will  lie  ?  Perhaps  they  have  never  observed  what 
is  the  retiring  allowance  of  a  field  officer;  or  do  they 
suppose  their  contributions  to  the  arts  of  pleasing  more 
important  than  the  services  of  a  colonel  ?  Perhaps  they 
forget  on  how  little  Millet  was  content  to  live;  or  do 
they  think,  because  they  have  less  genius,  they  stand 
excused  from  the  display  of  equal  virtues  ?  But  upon 
one  point  there  should  be  no  dubiety :  if  a  man  be  not 
frugal,  he  has  no  business  in  the  arts.  If  he  be  not  frugal, 
he  steers  directly  for  that  last  tragic  scene  of  levieux 
saltimbanque  ;  if  he  be  not  frugal,  he  will  find  it  hard  to 
continue  to  be  honest.  Some  day,  when  the  butcher  is 
knocking  at  the  door,  he  may  be  tempted,  he  may  be 
obliged,  to  turn  out  and  sell  a  slovenly  piece  of  work. 
If  the  obligation  shall  have  arisen  through  no  wanton- 
ness of  his  own,  he  is  even  to  be  commended;  for 
words  cannot  describe  how  far  more  necessary  it  is  that 
a  man  should  support  his  family,  than  that  he  should 
attain  to  —  or  preserve  —  distinction  in  the  arts.  But  if 
the  pressure  comes  through  his  own  fault,  he  has  stolen, 
and  stolen  under  trust,  and  stolen  (which  is  the  worst 
of  all)  in  such  a  way  that  no  law  can  reach  him. 

And  now  you  may  perhaps  ask  me,  if  the  debutant 
artist  is  to  have  no  thought  of  money,  and  if  (as  is  im- 
plied) he  is  to  expect  no  honours  from  the  State,  he  may 
not  at  least  look  forward  to  the  delights  of  popularity  ? 

288 


LETTER  TO   A   YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

Praise,  you  will  tell  me,  is  a  savoury  dish.  And  in  so 
far  as  you  may  mean  the  countenance  of  other  artists, 
you  would  put  your  fmger  on  one  of  the  most  essential 
and  enduring  pleasures  of  the  career  of  art.  But  in  so 
far  as  you  should  have  an  eye  to  the  commendations  of 
the  public  or  the  notice  of  the  newspapers,  be  sure  you 
would  but  be  cherishing  a  dream.  It  is  true  that  in  cer- 
tain esoteric  journals  the  author  (for  instance)  is  duly 
criticised,  and  that  he  is  often  praised  a  great  deal  more 
than  he  deserves,  sometimes  for  qualities  which  he 
prided  himself  on  eschewing,  and  sometimes  by  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  have  denied  themselves  the  privi- 
lege of  reading  his  work.  But  if  a  man  be  sensitive  to 
this  wild  praise,  we  must  suppose  him  equally  alive  to 
that  which  often  accompanies  and  always  follows  it  — 
wild  ridicule.  A  man  may  have  done  well  for  years, 
and  then  he  may  fail ;  he  will  hear  of  his  failure.  Or  he 
may  have  done  well  for  years,  and  still  do  well,  but  the 
critics  may  have  tired  of  praising  him,  or  there  may  have 
sprung  up  some  new  idol  of  the  instant,  some  "  dust  a 
little  gilt,"  to  whom  they  now  prefer  to  offer  sacrifice. 
Here  is  the  obverse  and  the  reverse  of  that  empty  and 
ugly  thing  called  popularity.  Will  any  man  suppose 
it  worth  the  gaining  ? 


289 


XL   PULVIS    ET    UMBRA 

We  look  for  some  reward  of  our  endeavours  and 
are  disappointed ;  not  success,  not  happiness,  not  even 
peace  of  conscience,  crowns  our  ineffectual  efforts  to 
do  well.  Our  frailties  are  invincible,  are  virtues  barren ; 
the  battle  goes  sore  against  us  to  the  going  down  of  the 
sun.  The  canting  moralist  tells  us  of  right  and  wrong; 
and  we  look  abroad,  even  on  the  face  of  our  small  earth, 
and  find  them  change  with  every  climate,  and  no  coun- 
try where  some  action  is  not  honoured  for  a  virtue  and 
none  where  it  is  not  branded  for  a  vice ;  and  we  look  in 
our  experience,  and  find  no  vital  congruity  in  the  wisest 
rules,  but  at  the  best  a  municipal  fitness.  It  is  not 
strange  if  we  are  tempted  to  despair  of  good.  We  ask 
too  much.  Our  religions  and  moralities  have  been 
trimmed  to  flatter  us,  till  they  are  all  emasculate  and 
sentimentalised,  and  only  please  and  weaken.  Truth 
is  of  a  rougher  strain.  In  the  harsh  face  of  life,  faith 
can  read  a  bracing  gospel.  The  human  race  is  a  thing 
more  ancient  than  the  ten  commandments;  and  the 
bones  and  revolutions  of  the  Kosmos,  in  whose  joints 
we  are  but  moss  and  fungus,  more  ancient  still. 

290 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

I 

Of  the  Kosmos  in  the  last  resort,  science  reports  many 
doubtful  things  and  all  of  them  appalling.  There  seems 
no  substance  to  this  solid  globe  on  which  we  stamp : 
nothing  but  symbols  and  ratios.  Symbols  and  ratios 
carry  us  and  bring  us  forth  and  beat  us  down ;  gravity 
that  swings  the  incommensurable  suns  and  worlds 
through  space,  is  but  a  figment  varying  inversely  as 
the  squares  of  distances ;  and  the  suns  and  worlds  them- 
selves, imponderable  figures  of  abstraction,  NHg  and 
HgO.  Consideration  dares  not  dwell  upon  this  view; 
that  way  madness  lies ;  science  carries  us  into  zones  of 
speculation,  where  there  is  no  habitable  city  for  the 
mind  of  man. 

But  take  the  Kosmos  with  a  grosser  faith,  as  our 
senses  give  it  us.  We  behold  space  sown  with  rota- 
tory islands,  suns  and  worlds  and  the  shards  and  wrecks 
of  systems :  some,  like  the  sun,  still  blazing ;  some  rot- 
ting, like  the  earth;  others,  like  the  moon,  stable  in 
desolation.  All  of  these  we  take  to  be  made  of  some- 
thing we  call  matter:  a  thing  which  no  analysis  can 
help  us  to  conceive ;  to  whose  incredible  properties  no 
familiarity  can  reconcile  our  minds.  This  stuff,  when 
not  purified  by  the  lustration  of  fire,  rots  uncleanly  into 
something  we  call  life ;  seized  through  all  its  atoms  with 
a  pediculous  malady ;  swelling  in  tumours  that  become 
independent,  sometimes  even  (by  an  abhorrent  prodigy) 
locomotory ;  one  splitting  into  millions,  millions  cohering 
into  one,  as  the  malady  proceeds  through  varying  stages. 
This  vital  putrescence  of  the  dust,  used  as  we  are  to  it, 
yet  strikes  us  with  occasional  disgust,  and  the  profusion 

2pl 


PULVIS  ET   UMBRA 

of  worms  in  a  piece  of  ancient  turf,  or  the  air  of  a  marsh 
darkened  with  insects,  will  sometimes  check  cur  breath- 
ing so  that  we  aspire  for  cleaner  places.  But  none  is  clean : 
the  moving  sand  is  infected  with  lice ;  the  pure  spring, 
where  it  bursts  out  of  the  mountain,  is  a  mere  issue  of 
worms ;  even  in  the  hard  rock  the  crystal  is  forming. 

In  two  main  shapes  this  eruption  covers  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  earth:  the  animal  and  the  vegetable:  one 
in  some  degree  the  inversion  of  the  other:  the  second 
rooted  to  the  spot;  the  first  coming  detached  out  of  its 
natal  mud,  and  scurrying  abroad  with  the  myriad  feet 
of  insects  or  towering  into  the  heavens  on  the  wings  of 
birds :  a  thing  so  inconceivable  that,  if  it  be  well  con- 
sidered, the  heart  stops.  To  what  passes  with  the  an- 
chored vermin,  we  have  little  clue :  doubtless  they  have 
their  joys  and  sorrows,  their  delights  and  killing  agonies : 
it  appears  not  how.  But  of  the  locomotory,  to  which 
we  ourselves  belong,  we  can  tell  more.  These  share 
with  us  a  thousand  miracles :  the  miracles  of  sight,  of 
hearing,  of  the  projection  of  sound,  things  that  bridge 
space;  the  miracles  of  memory  and  reason,  by  which 
the  present  is  conceived,  and  when  it  is  gone,  its  image 
kept  living  in  the  brains  of  man  and  brute ;  the  miracle 
of  reproduction,  with  its  imperious  desires  and  stagger- 
ing consequences.  And  to  put  the  last  touch  upon  this 
mountain  mass  of  the  revolting  and  the  inconceivable, 
all  these  prey  upon  each  other,  lives  tearing  other  lives 
in  pieces,  cramming  them  inside  themselves,  and  by 
that  summary  process,  growing  fat :  the  vegetarian,  the 
whale,  perhaps  the  tree,  not  less  than  the  lion  of  the 
desert;  for  the  vegetarian  is  only  the  eater  of  the  dumb. 

Meanwhile  our  rotatory  island  loaded  with  predatory 

392 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

life,  and  more  drenched  with  blood,  both  animal  and 
vegetable,  than  ever  mutinied  ship,  scuds  through  space 
with  unimaginable  speed,  and  turns  alternate  cheeks  to 
the  reverberation  of  a  blazing  world,  ninety  million 
miles  away. 


What  a  monstrous  spectre  is  this  man,  the  disease 
of  the  agglutinated  dust,  lifting  alternate  feet  or  lying 
drugged  with  slumber;  killing,  feeding,  growing,  bring- 
ing forth  small  copies  of  himself;  grown  upon  with  hair 
like  grass,  fitted  with  eyes  that  move  and  glitter  in  his 
face ;  a  thing  to  set  children  screaming ; — and  yet  looked 
at  nearlier,  known  as  his  fellows  know  him,  how  sur- 
prising are  his  attributes !  Poor  soul,  here  for  so  little, 
cast  among  so  many  hardships,  filled  with  desires  so  in- 
commensurate and  so  inconsistent,  savagely  surrounded, 
savagely  descended,  irremediably  condemned  to  prey 
upon  his  fellow  lives :  who  should  have  blamed  him  had 
he  been  of  a  piece  with  his  destiny  and  a  being  merely 
barbarous  ?  And  we  look  and  behold  him  instead  filled 
with  imperfect  virtues :  infinitely  childish,  often  admira- 
bly valiant,  often  touchingly  kind ;  sitting  down,  amidst 
his  momentary  life,  to  debate  of  right  and  wrong  and  the 
attributes  of  the  deity ;  rising  up  to  do  battle  for  an  egg 
or  die  for  an  idea;  singling  out  his  friends  and  his  mate 
with  cordial  affection;  bringing  forth  in  pain,  rearing 
with  long-suffering  solicitude,  his  young.  To  touch  the 
heart  of  his  mystery,  we  find  in  him  one  thought,  strange 
to  the  point  of  lunacy :  the  thought  of  duty ;  the  thought 
of  something  owing  to  himself,  to  his  neighbour,  to  his 
God :  an  ideal  of  decency,  to  which  he  would  rise  if  it 

293 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

were  possible;  a  limit  of  shame,  below  which,  if  it  be 
possible,  he  will  not  stoop.  The  design  in  most  men 
is  one  of  conformity ;  here  and  there,  in  picked  natures, 
it  transcends  itself  and  soars  on  the  other  side,  arming 
martyrs  with  independence;  but  in  all,  in  their  degrees, 
it  is  a  bosom  thought: — Not  in  man  alone,  for  we  trace 
it  in  dogs  and  cats  whom  we  know  fairly  well,  and 
doubtless  some  similar  point  of  honour  sways  the  ele- 
phant, the  oyster,  and  the  louse,  of  whom  we  know  so 
little: — But  in  man,  at  least,  it  sways  with  so  complete 
an  empire  that  merely  selfish  things  come  second,  even 
with  the  selfish:  that  appetites  are  starved,  fears  are 
conquered,  pains  supported;  that  almost  the  dullest 
shrinks  from  the  reproof  of  a  glance,  although  it  were  a 
child's ;  and  all  but  the  most  cowardly  stand  amid  the 
risks  of  war;  and  the  more  noble,  having  strongly  con- 
ceived an  act  as  due  to  their  ideal,  affront  and  embrace 
death.  Strange  enough  if,  with  their  singular  origin 
and  perverted  practice,  they  think  they  are  to  be  re- 
warded in  some  future  life :  stranger  still,  if  they  are  per- 
suaded of  the  contrary,  and  think  this  blow,  which  they 
solicit,  will  strike  them  senseless  for  eternity.  1  shall  be 
reminded  what  a  tragedy  of  misconception  and  miscon- 
duct man  at  large  presents :  of  organised  injustice,  cow- 
ardly violence  and  treacherous  crime ;  and  of  the  damning 
imperfections  of  the  best.  They  cannot  be  too  darkly 
drawn.  Man  is  indeed  marked  for  failure  in  his  efforts 
to  do  right.  But  where  the  best  consistently  miscarry, 
how  tenfold  more  remarkable  that  all  should  continue 
to  strive;  and  surely  we  should  fmd  it  both  touching 
and  inspiriting,  that  in  a  field  from  which  success  is 
banished,  our  race  should  not  cease  to  labour. 

294 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

If  the  first  view  of  this  creature,  stalking  in  his  rota- 
tory isle,  be  a  thing  to  shake  the  courage  of  the  stoutest, 
on  this  nearer  sight,  he  startles  us  with  an  admiring 
wonder.  It  matters  not  where  we  look,  under  what 
climate  we  observe  him,  in  what  stage  of  society,  in 
what  depth  of  ignorance,  burthened  with  what  errone- 
ous morality;  by  camp-fires  in  Assiniboia,  the  snow 
powdering  his  shoulders,  the  wind  plucking  his  blanket, 
as  he  sits,  passing  the  ceremonial  calumet  and  uttering 
his  grave  opinions  like  a  Roman  senator;  in  ships  at  sea, 
a  man  inured  to  hardship  and  vile  pleasures,  his  bright- 
est hope  a  fiddle  in  a  tavern  and  a  bedizened  trull  who 
sells  herself  to  rob  him,  and  he  for  all  that  simple,  inno- 
cent, cheerful,  kindly  like  a  child,  constant  to  toil,  brave 
to  drown,  for  others;  in  the  slums  of  cities,  moving 
among  indifferent  millions  to  mechanical  employments, 
without  hope  of  change  in  the  future,  with  scarce  a 
pleasure  in  the  present,  and  yet  true  to  his  virtues,  hon- 
est up  to  his  lights,  kind  to  his  neighbours,  tempted 
perhaps  in  vain  by  the  bright  gin-palace,  perhaps  long- 
suffering  with  the  drunken  wife  that  ruins  him ;  in  India 
(a  woman  this  time)  kneeling  with  broken  cries  and 
streaming  tears,  as  she  drowns  her  child  in  the  sacred 
river;  in  the  brothel,  the  discard  of  society,  living  mainly 
on  strong  drink,  fed  with  affronts,  a  fool,  a  thief,  the 
comrade  of  thieves,  and  even  here  keeping  the  point  of 
honour  and  the  touch  of  pity,  often  repaying  the  world's 
scorn  with  service,  often  standing  firm  upon  a  scruple, 
and  at  a  certain  cost,  rejecting  riches: — everywhere 
some  virtue  cherished  or  affected,  everywhere  some  de- 
cency of  thought  and  carriage,  everywhere  the  ensign 
of  man's  ineffectual  goodness : —  ah !  if  I  could  show 

395 


PULVIS  ET   UMBRA 

you  this !  if  I  could  show  you  these  men  and  women, 
all  the  world  over,  in  every  stage  of  history,  under 
every  abuse  of  error,  under  every  circumstance  of  fail- 
ure, without  hope,  without  help,  without  thanks,  still 
obscurely  fighting  the  lost  fight  of  virtue,  still  clinging, 
in  the  brothel  or  on  the  scaffold,  to  some  rag  of  honour, 
the  poor  jewel  of  their  souls !  They  may  seek  to  es- 
cape, and  yet  they  cannot ;  it  is  not  alone  their  privilege 
and  glory,  but  their  doom ;  they  are  condemned  to  some 
nobility ;  all  their  lives  long,  the  desire  of  good  is  at  their 
heels,  the  implacable  hunter. 

Of  all  earth's  meteors,  here  at  least  is  the  most  strange 
and  consoling  :thatthis  ennobled  lemur,  this  hair-crowned 
bubble  of  the  dust,  this  inheritor  of  a  few  years  and  sor- 
rows, should  yet  deny  himself  his  rare  delights,  and  add 
to  his  frequent  pains,  and  live  for  an  ideal,  however 
misconceived.  Nor  can  we  stop  with  man.  A  new 
doctrine,  received  with  screams  a  little  while  ago  by 
canting  moralists,  and  still  not  properly  worked  into 
the  body  of  our  thoughts,  lights  us  a  step  farther  into  the 
heart  of  this  rough  but  noble  universe.  For  nowadays 
the  pride  of  man  denies  in  vain  his  kinship  with  the 
original  dust.  He  stands  no  longer  like  a  thing  apart. 
Close  at  his  heels  we  see  the  dog,  prince  of  another 
genus:  and  in  him  too,  we  see  dumbly  testified  the 
same  cultus  of  an  unattainable  ideal,  the  same  constancy 
in  failure.  Does  it  stop  with  the  dog  ?  We  look  at  our 
feet  where  the  ground  is  blackened  with  the  swarming 
ant :  a  creature  so  small,  so  far  from  us  in  the  hierarchy 
of  brutes,  that  we  can  scarce  trace  and  scarce  comprehend 
his  doings;  and  here  also,  in  his  ordered  polities  and  rigor- 
ous justice,  we  see  confessed  the  law  of  duty  and  the  fact 

296 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

of  individual  sin.  Does  it  stop,  then,  with  the  ant  ?  Rather 
this  desire  of  well-doing  and  this  doom  of  frailty  run 
through  all  the  grades  of  life :  rather  is  this  earth,  from  the 
frosty  top  of  Everest  to  the  next  margin  of  the  internal 
fire,  one  stage  of  ineffectual  virtues  and  one  temple  of 
pious  tears  and  perseverance.  The  whole  creation 
groaneth  and  travaileth  together.  It  is  the  common  and 
the  god-like  law  of  life.  The  browsers,  the  biters,  the 
barkers,  the  hairy  coats  of  field  and  forest,  the  squirrel 
in  the  oak,  the  thousand-footed  creeper  in  the  dust,  as 
they  share  with  us  the  gift  of  life,  share  with  us  the  love 
of  an  ideal :  strive  like  us  —  like  us  are  tempted  to  grow 
weary  of  the  struggle  —  to  do  well ;  like  us  receive  at 
times  unmerited  refreshment,  visitings  of  support,  re- 
turns of  courage;  and  are  condemned  like  us  to  be  cruci- 
fied between  that  double  law  of  the  members  and  the 
will.  Are  they  like  us,  I  wonder,  in  the  timid  hope  of 
some  reward,  some  sugar  with  the  drug  ?  do  they,  too, 
stand  aghast  at  unrewarded  virtues,  at  the  sufferings  of 
those  whom,  in  our  partiality,  we  take  to  be  just,  and 
the  prosperity  of  such  as,  in  our  blindness,  we  call 
wicked  ?  It  may  be,  and  yet  God  knows  what  they 
should  look  for.  Even  while  they  look,  even  while  they 
repent,  the  foot  of  man  treads  them  by  thousands  in  the 
dust,  the  yelping  hounds  burst  upon  their  trail,  the  bul- 
let speeds,  the  knives  are  heating  in  the  den  of  the 
vivisectionist;  or  the  dew  falls,  and  the  generation  of  a 
day  is  blotted  out.  For  these  are  creatures,  compared 
with  whom  our  weakness  is  strength,  our  ignorance 
wisdom,  our  brief  span  eternity. 

And  as  we  dwell,  we  living  things,  in  our  isle  of  ter- 
ror and  under  the  imminent  hand  of  death,  God  forbid 

297 


PULVIS  ET   UMBRA 

it  should  be  man  the  erected,  the  reasoner,  the  wise  in 
his  own  eyes  —  God  forbid  it  should  be  man  that  wearies 
in  well-doing,  that  despairs  of  unrewarded  effort,  or 
utters  the  language  of  complaint.  Let  it  be  enough  for 
faith,  that  the  whole  creation  groans  in  mortal  frailty, 
strives  with  unconquerable  constancy :  Surely  not  all  in 
vain. 


aps 


XII.   A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

By  the  time  this  paper  appears,  I  shall  have  been  talk- 
ing for  twelve  months ;  ^  and  it  is  thought  I  should  take 
my  leave  in  a  formal  and  seasonable  manner.  Valedic- 
tory eloquence  is  rare,  and  death-bed  sayings  have  not 
often  hit  the  mark  of  the  occasion.  Charles  Second, 
wit  and  sceptic,  a  man  whose  life  had  been  one  long 
lesson  in  human  incredulity,  an  easy-going  comrade,  a 
manoeuvring  king — remembered  and  embodied  all  his 
wit  and  scepticism  along  with  more  than  his  usual  good 
humour  in  the  famous  "I  am  afraid,  gentlemen,  I  am 
an  unconscionable  time  a-dying." 


I 

An  unconscionable  time  a-dying — there  is  the  picture 
("  I  am  afraid,  gentlemen, ")  of  your  life  and  of  mine.  The 
sands  run  out,  and  the  hours  are  **  numbered  and  im- 
puted," and  the  days  go  by;  and  when  the  last  of  these 
finds  us,  we  have  been  a  long  time  dying,  and  what 
else  ?  The  very  length  is  something,  if  we  reach  that 
hour  of  separation  undishonoured ;  and  to  have  lived  at 
all  is  doubtless  (in  the  soldierly  expression)  to  have 
^i.  e.  in  the  pages  of  Scrihner's  Magazine  (1888). 

290 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

served.  There  is  a  tale  in  Tacitus  of  how  the  veterans 
mutinied  in  the  German  wilderness ;  of  how  they  mobbed 
Germanicus,  clamouring  to  go  home;  and  of  how,  seiz- 
ing their  general's  hand,  these  old,  war-worn  exiles 
passed  his  finger  along  their  toothless  gums.  Sunt 
lacrymce  rerum:  this  was  the  most  eloquent  of  the 
songs  of  Simeon.  And  when  a  man  has  lived  to  a  fair 
age,  he  bears  his  marks  of  service.  He  may  have  never 
been  remarked  upon  the  breach  at  the  head  of  the  army ; 
at  least  he  shall  have  lost  his  teeth  on  the  camp  bread. 

The  idealism  of  serious  people  in  this  age  of  ours  is 
of  a  noble  character.  It  never  seems  to  them  that  they 
have  served  enough ;  they  have  a  fine  impatience  of  their 
virtues.  It  were  perhaps  more  modest  to  be  singly 
thankful  that  we  are  no  worse.  It  is  not  only  our  ene- 
mies, those  desperate  characters —  it  is  we  ourselves  who 
know  not  what  we  do;  —  thence  springs  the  glimmer- 
ing hope  that  perhaps  we  do  better  than  we  think :  that 
to  scramble  through  this  random  business  with  hands 
reasonably  clean,  to  have  played  the  part  of  a  man  or 
woman  with  some  reasonable  fulness,  to  have  often  re- 
sisted the  diabolic,  and  at  the  end  to  be  still  resisting  it, 
is  for  the  poor  human  soldier  to  have  done  right  well.  To 
ask  to  see  some  fruit  of  our  endeavour  is  but  a  tran- 
scendental way  of  serving  for  reward;  and  what  we  take 
to  be  contempt  of  self  is  only  greed  of  hire. 

And  again  if  we  require  so  much  of  ourselves,  shall 
we  not  require  much  of  others  }  If  we  do  not  genially 
judge  our  own  deficiencies,  is  it  not  to  be  feared  we 
shall  be  even  stern  to  the  trespasses  of  others  }  And  he 
who  (looking  back  upon  his  own  life)  can  see  no  more 
than  that  he  has  been  unconscionably  long  a-dying,  will 

300 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

he  not  be  tempted  to  think  his  neighbour  unconscion- 
ably long  of  getting  hanged  ?  It  is  probable  that  nearly 
all  who  think  of  conduct  at  all,  think  of  it  too  much ;  it 
is  certain  we  all  think  too  much  of  sin.  We  are  not 
damned  for  doing  wrong,  but  for  not  doing  right;  Christ 
would  never  hear  of  negative  morality ;  thou  shalt  was 
ever  his  word,  with  which  he  superseded  thou  shalt  not. 
To  make  our  idea  of  morality  centre  on  forbidden  acts 
is  to  defile  the  imagination  and  to  introduce  into  our 
judgments  of  our  fellow-men  a  secret  element  of  gusto. 
If  a  thing  is  wrong  for  us,  we  should  not  dwell  upon 
the  thought  of  it;  or  we  shall  soon  dwell  upon  it  with 
inverted  pleasure.  If  we  cannot  drive  it  from  our  minds 
—  one  thing  of  two :  either  our  creed  is  in  the  wrong 
and  we  must  more  indulgently  remodel  it;  or  else,  if 
our  morality  be  in  the  right,  we  are  criminal  lunatics 
and  should  place  our  persons  in  restraint.  A  mark  of 
such  unwholesomely  divided  minds  is  the  passion  for 
interference  with  others :  the  Fox  without  the  Tail  was 
of  this  breed,  but  had  (if  his  biographer  is  to  be  trusted) 
a  certain  antique  civility  now  out  of  date.  A  man  may 
have  a  flaw,  a  weakness,  that  unfits  him  for  the  duties 
of  life,  that  spoils  his  temper,  that  threatens  his  integ- 
rity, or  that  betrays  him  into  cruelty.  It  has  to  be  con- 
quered; but  it  must  never  be  suffered  to  engross  his 
thoughts.  The  true  duties  lie  all  upon  the  farther  side, 
and  must  be  attended  to  with  a  whole  mind  so  soon  as 
this  preliminary  clearing  of  the  decks  has  been  effected. 
In  order  that  he  may  be  kind  and  honest,  it  may  be 
needful  he  should  become  a  total  abstainer;  let  him  be- 
come so  then,  and  the  next  day  let  him  forget  the  cir- 
cumstance.    Trying  to  be  kind  and  honest  will  require 

301 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

all  his  thoughts ;  a  mortified  appetite  is  never  a  wise  com- 
panion ;  in  so  far  as  he  has  had  to  mortify  an  appetite, 
he  will  still  be  the  worse  man ;  and  of  such  an  one  a  great 
deal  of  cheerfulness  will  be  required  in  judging  life,  and 
a  great  deal  of  humility  in  judging  others. 

It  may  be  argued  again  that  dissatisfaction  with  our 
life's  endeavour  springs  in  some  degree  from  dulness. 
We  require  higher  tasks,  because  we  do  not  recognise 
the  height  of  those  we  have.  Trying  to  be  kind  and 
honest  seems  an  affair  too  simple  and  too  inconsequen- 
tial for  gentlemen  of  our  heroic  mould ;  we  had  rather 
set  ourselves  to  something  bold,  arduous,  and  conclu- 
sive ;  we  had  rather  found  a  schism  or  suppress  a  heresy, 
cut  off  a  hand  or  mortify  an  appetite.  But  the  task  be- 
fore us,  which  is  to  co-endure  with  our  existence,  is 
rather  one  of  microscopic  fineness,  and  the  heroism  re- 
quired is  that  of  patience.  There  is  no  cutting  of  the  Gor- 
dian  knots  of  life ;  each  must  be  smilingly  unravelled. 

To  be  honest,  to  be  kind  —  to  earn  a  little  and  to 
spend  a  little  less,  to  make  upon  the  whole  a  family 
happier  for  his  presence,  to  renounce  when  that  shall 
be  necessary  and  not  be  embittered,  to  keep  a  few  friends 
but  these  without  capitulation  —  above  all,  on  the  same 
grim  condition,  to  keep  friends  with  himself —  here  is  a 
task  for  all  that  a  man  has  of  fortitude  and  delicacy.  He 
has  an  ambitious  soul  who  would  ask  more;  he  has  a 
hopeful  spirit  who  should  look  in  such  an  enterprise  to 
be  successful.  There  is  indeed  one  element  in  human 
destiny  that  not  blindness  itself  can  controvert :  what- 
ever else  we  are  intended  to  do,  we  are  not  intended  to 
succeed ;  failure  is  the  fate  allotted.  It  is  so  in  every  art 
and  study ;  it  is  so  above  all  in  the  continent  art  of  liv- 

302 


A   CHRISTMAS  SERMON 


ing  well.  Here  is  a  pleasant  thought  for  the  year's  end 
or  for  the  end  of  life :  Only  self-deception  will  be  satis- 
fied, and  there  need  be  no  despair  for  the  despairer. 


But  Christmas  is  not  only  the  mile-mark  of  another 
year,  moving  us  to  thoughts  of  self-examination :  it  is  a 
season,  from  all  its  associations,  whether  domestic  or 
religious,  suggesting  thoughts  of  joy.  A  man  dissatis- 
fied with  his  endeavours  is  a  man  tempted  to  sadness. 
And  in  the  midst  of  the  winter,  when  his  life  runs  low- 
est and  he  is  reminded  of  the  empty  chairs  of  his  beloved, 
it  is  well  he  should  be  condemned  to  this  fashion  of  the 
smiling  face.  Noble  disappointment,  noble  self-denial 
are  not  to  be  admired,  not  even  to  be  pardoned,  if  they 
bring  bitterness.  It  is  one  thing  to  enter  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  maim;  another  to  maim  yourself  and  stay 
without.  And  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  of  the  child- 
like, of  those  who  are  easy  to  please,  who  love  and  who 
give  pleasure.  Mighty  men  of  their  hands,  the  smiters 
and  the  builders  and  the  judges,  have  lived  long  and 
done  sternly  and  yet  preserved  this  lovely  character; 
and  among  our  carpet  interests  and  twopenny  concerns, 
the  shame  were  indelible  if  we  should  lose  it.  Gentle- 
ness and  cheerfulness,  these  come  before  all  morality; 
they  are  the  perfect  duties.  And  it  is  the  trouble  with 
moral  men  that  they  have  neither  one  nor  other.  It  was 
the  moral  man,  the  Pharisee,  whom  Christ  could  not 
away  with.  If  your  morals  make  you  dreary,  depend 
upon  it  they  are  wrong.  I  do  not  say  *'give  them  up," 
for  they  may  be  all  you  have ;  but  conceal  them  like  a 

30} 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

vice,  lest  they  should  spoil  the  lives  of  better  and  simpler 
people. 

A  strange  temptation  attends  upon  man :  to  keep  his 
eye  on  pleasures,  even  when  he  will  not  share  in  them ; 
to  aim  all  his  morals  against  them.  This  very  year  a 
lady  (singular  iconoclast!)  proclaimed  a  crusade  against 
dolls;  and  the  racy  sermon  against  lust  is  a  feature  of 
the  age.  I  venture  to  call  such  moralists  insincere.  At 
any  excess  or  perversion  of  a  natural  appetite,  their  lyre 
sounds  of  itself  with  relishing  denunciations ;  but  for  all 
displays  of  the  truly  diabolic  —  envy,  malice,  the  mean 
lie,  the  mean  silence,  the  calumnious  truth,  the  back- 
biter, the  petty  tyrant,  the  peevish  poisoner  of  family 
life — their  standard  is  quite  different.  These  are  wrong, 
they  will  admit,  yet  somehow  not  so  wrong;  there  is 
no  zeal  in  their  assault  on  them,  no  secret  element  of 
gusto  warms  up  the  sermon ;  it  is  for  things  not  wrong 
in  themselves  that  they  reserve  the  choicest  of  their 
indignation.  A  man  may  naturally  disclaim  all  moral 
kinship  with  the  Reverend  Mr.  Zola  or  the  hobgoblin 
old  lady  of  the  dolls ;  for  these  are  gross  and  naked  in- 
stances. And  yet  in  each  of  us  some  similar  element 
resides.  The  sight  of  a  pleasure  in  which  we  cannot  or 
else  will  not  share  moves  us  to  a  particular  impatience. 
It  may  be  because  we  are  envious,  or  because  we  are 
sad,  or  because  we  dislike  noise  and  romping  —  being 
so  refined,  or  because — being  so  philosophic — we  have 
an  overweighing  sense  of  life's  gravity :  at  least,  as  we 
go  on  in  years,  we  are  all  tempted  to  frown  upon  our 
neighbour's  pleasures.  People  are  nowadays  so  fond 
of  resisting  temptations  ;  here  is  one  to  be  resisted. 
They  are  fond  of  self-denial ;  here  is  a  propensity  that 

304 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

cannot  be  too  peremptorily  denied.  There  is  an  idea 
abroad  among  moral  people  that  they  should  make  their 
neighbours  good.  One  person  I  have  to  make  good: 
myself.  But  my  duty  to  my  neighbour  is  much  more 
nearly  expressed  by  saying  that  I  have  to  make  him 
happy  —  if  I  may. 

Ill 

Happiness  and  goodness,  according  to  canting  moral- 
ists, stand  in  the  relation  of  effect  and  cause.  There 
was  never  anything  less  proved  or  less  probable:  our 
happiness  is  never  in  our  own  hands;  we  inherit  our 
constitution;  we  stand  buffet  among  friends  and  ene- 
mies ;  we  may  be  so  built  as  to  feel  a  sneer  or  an  asper- 
sion with  unusual  keenness,  and  so  circumstanced  as  to 
be  unusually  exposed  to  them;  we  may  have  nerves 
very  sensitive  to  pain,  and  be  afflicted  with  a  disease 
very  painful.  Virtue  will  not  help  us,  and  it  is  not 
meant  to  help  us.  It  is  not  even  its  own  reward,  ex- 
cept for  the  self-centred  and  —  I  had  almost  said  —  the 
unamiable.  No  man  can  pacify  his  conscience ;  if  quiet 
be  what  he  want,  he  shall  do  better  to  let  that  organ 
perish  from  disuse.  And  to  avoid  the  penalties  of  the 
law,  and  the  minor  capitis  diminutio  of  social  ostracism, 
is  an  affair  of  wisdom  —  of  cunning,  if  you  will  —  and 
not  of  virtue. 

In  his  own  life,  then,  a  man  is  not  to  expect  happiness, 
only  to  profit  by  it  gladly  when  it  shall  arise ;  he  is  on 
duty  here;  he  knows  not  how  or  why,  and  does  not 
need  to  know ;  he  knows  not  for  what  hire,  and  must 
not  ask.  Somehow  or  other,  though  he  does  not  know 
what  goodness  is,  he  must  try  to  be  good ;  somehow 

305 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

or  Other,  though  he  cannot  tell  what  will  do  it,  he  must 
try  to  give  happiness  to  others.  And  no  doubt  there 
comes  in  here  a  frequent  clash  of  duties.  How  far  is  he 
to  make  his  neighbour  happy  ?  How  far  must  he  re- 
spect that  smiling  face,  so  easy  to  cloud,  so  hard  to 
brighten  again  ?  And  how  far,  on  the  other  side,  is  he 
bound  to  be  his  brother's  keeper  and  the  prophet  of  his 
own  morality  ?    How  far  must  he  resent  evil  ? 

The  difficulty  is  that  we  have  little  guidance ;  Christ's 
sayings  on  the  point  being  hard  to  reconcile  with  each 
other,  and  (the  most  of  them)  hard  to  accept.  But  the 
truth  of  his  teaching  would  seem  to  be  this :  in  our  own 
person  and  fortune,  we  should  be  ready  to  accept  and 
to  pardon  all ;  it  is  our  cheek  we  are  to  turn,  our  coat 
that  we  are  to  give  away  to  the  man  who  has  taken  our 
cloak.  But  when  another's  face  is  buffeted,  perhaps  a 
little  of  the  lion  will  become  us  best.  That  we  are  to 
suffer  others  to  be  injured,  and  stand  by,  is  not  conceiv- 
able and  surely  not  desirable.  Revenge,  says  Bacon,  is 
a  kind  of  wild  justice ;  its  judgments  at  least  are  deliv- 
ered by  an  insane  judge;  and  in  our  own  quarrel  we 
can  see  nothing  truly  and  do  nothing  wisely.  But  in 
the  quarrel  of  our  neighbour,  let  us  be  more  bold.  One 
person's  happiness  is  as  sacred  as  another's ;  when  we 
cannot  defend  both,  let  us  defend  one  with  a  stout  heart. 
It  is  only  in  so  far  as  we  are  doing  this,  that  we  have 
any  right  to  interfere  :  the  defence  of  B  is  our  only 
ground  of  action  against  A.  A  has  as  good  a  right  to 
go  to  the  devil,  as  we  to  go  to  glory ;  and  neither  knows 
what  he  does. 

The  truth  is  that  all  these  interventions  and  denunci- 
ations and  militant  mongerings  of  moral  half-truths, 

306 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

though  they  be  sometimes  needful,  though  they  are 
often  enjoyable,  do  yet  belong  to  an  inferior  grade  of 
duties.  Ill-temper  and  envy  and  revenge  find  here  an 
arsenal  of  pious  disguises ;  this  is  the  playground  of  in- 
verted lusts.  With  a  little  more  patience  and  a  little 
less  temper,  a  gentler  and  wiser  method  might  be  found 
in  almost  every  case ;  and  the  knot  that  we  cut  by  some 
fine  heady  quarrel-scene  in  private  life,  or,  in  public 
affairs,  by  some  denunciatory  act  against  what  we  are 
pleased  to  call  our  neighbour's  vices,  might  yet  have 
been  unwoven  by  the  hand  of  sympathy. 


IV 

To  look  back  upon  the  past  year,  and  see  how  little 
we  have  striven  and  to  what  small  purpose;  and  how 
often  we  have  been  cowardly  and  hung  back,  or  teme- 
rarious and  rushed  unwisely  in ;  and  how  every  day  and 
all  day  long  we  have  transgressed  the  law  of  kindness; 
—  it  may  seem  a  paradox,  but  in  the  bitterness  of  these 
discoveries,  a  certain  consolation  resides.  Life  is  not 
designed  to  minister  to  a  man's  vanity.  He  goes  upon 
his  long  business  most  of  the  time  with  a  hanging  head, 
and  all  the  time  like  a  blind  child.  Full  of  rewards  and 
pleasures  as  it  is  —  so  that  to  see  the  day  break  or  the 
moon  rise,  or  to  meet  a  friend,  or  to  hear  the  dinner-call 
when  he  is  hungry,  fills  him  with  surprising  joys — this 
world  is  yet  for  him  no  abiding  city.  Friendships  fall 
through,  health  fails,  weariness  assails  him ;  year  after 
year,  he  must  thumb  the  hardly  varying  record  of  his 
own  weakness  and  folly.  It  is  a  friendly  process  of  de- 
tachment.    When  the  time  comes  that  he  should  go, 

307 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

there  need  be  few  illusions  left  about  himself  Here 
lies  one  who  meant  well,  tried  a  little,  failed  much:  — 
surely  that  may  be  his  epitaph,  of  which  he  need  not  be 
ashamed.  Nor  will  he  complain  at  the  summons  which 
calls  a  defeated  soldier  from  the  field :  defeated,  ay,  if  he 
were  Paul  or  Marcus  Aurelius !  —  but  if  there  is  still  one 
inch  of  fight  in  his  old  spirit,  undishonoured.  The  faith 
which  sustained  him  in  his  life-long  blindness  and  life- 
long disappointment  will  scarce  even  be  required  in  this 
last  formality  of  laying  down  his  arms.  Give  him  a 
march  with  his  old  bones;  there,  out  of  the  glorious 
sun-coloured  earth,  out  of  the  day  and  the  dust  and  the 
ecstasy  —  there  goes  another  Faithful  Failure ! 

From  a  recent  book  of  verse,  where  there  is  more  than 
one  such  beautiful  and  manly  poem,  I  take  this  me- 
morial piece:  it  says  better  than  I  can,  what  I  love  to 
think;  let  it  be  our  parting  word. 

"  A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies; 
And  from  the  west, 
Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 
Lingers  as  in  content, 
There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 
An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 
A  shining  peace. 

**  The  smoke  ascends 
In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.    The  spires 
Shine,  and  are  changed.     In  the  valley 
Shadows  rise.     The  lark  sings  on.    The  sun, 
Qosing  his  benediction. 
Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 
Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night— 
Night,  with  her  train  of  stars 
And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 
308 


A  CHRISTMAS  SERMON 

"  So  be  my  passing! 
My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 
My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 
Some  late  lark  singing, 
Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 
The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 
Death."  1 

1  From  A  Book  of  Verses  by  William  Ernest  Henley.     D.  Nutt, 

[1888.] 


309 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 


"  Vixerunt  nonnulH  in  agris,  deleciaUre sua  famiUari.  His  idem propositum 
/kit  quod  regibus,  ui  ne  qua  re  agerent,  ne  cut  parerent,  Ubertate  uterentur: 
cuius  propriunt  est  sic  vivere  ut  velis." 

Cic.,£>eOj:,I.xx. 


TO 

VIRGIL  WILLIAMS 

AND 

DORA  NORTON  WILLIAMS 

THESE  SKETCHES  ARE   AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 
BY  THEIR   FRIEND 

THE  AUTHOR 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

THE  scene  of  this  little  book  is  on  a  high  mountain. 
There  are,  indeed,  many  higher;  there  are  many 
of  a  nobler  outline.  It  is  no  place  of  pilgrimage  for  the 
summary  globe-trotter;  but  to  one  who  lives  upon  its 
sides.  Mount  Saint  Helena  soon  becomes  a  centre  of  in- 
terest. It  is  the  Mont  Blanc  of  one  section  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  Coast  Range,  none  of  its  near  neighbours  rising 
to  one-half  its  altitude.  It  looks  down  on  much  green, 
intricate  country.  It  feeds  in  the  spring-time  many 
splashing  brooks.  From  its  summit  you  must  have  an 
excellent  lesson  of  geography :  seeing,  to  the  south,  San 
Francisco  Bay,  with  Tamalpais  on  the  one  hand  and 
Monte  Diablo  on  the  other;  to  the  west  and  thirty  miles 
away,  the  open  ocean ;  eastward,  across  the  cornlands 
and  thick  tule  swamps  of  Sacramento  Valley,  to  where 
the  Central  Pacific  railroad  begins  to  climb  the  sides  of 
the  Sierras;  and  northward,  for  what  I  know,  the  white 
head  of  Shasta  looking  down  on  Oregon.  Three  coun- 
ties, Napa  County,  Lake  County,  and  Sonoma  County, 
march  across  its  cliffy  shoulders.  Its  naked  peak  stands 
nearly  four  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea; 
its  sides  are  fringed  with  forest ;  and  the  soil,  where  it 
is  bare,  glows  warm  with  cinnabar. 

Life  in  its  shadow  goes  rustically  forward.     Bucks, 

315 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

and  bears,  and  rattlesnakes,  and  former  mining  opera- 
tions, are  the  staple  of  men's  talk.  Agriculture  has 
only  begun  to  mount  above  the  valley.  And  though 
in  a  few  years  from  now  the  whole  district  may  be 
smiling  with  farms,  passing  trains  shaking  the  moun- 
tain to  the  heart,  many-windowed  hotels  lighting  up 
the  night  like  factories,  and  a  prosperous  city  occupy- 
ing the  site  of  sleepy  Calistoga;  yet  in  the  meantime, 
around  the  foot  of  that  mountain  the  silence  of  nature 
reigns  in  a  great  measure  unbroken,  and  the  people  of 
hill  and  valley  go  sauntering  about  their  business  as  in 
the  days  before  the  flood. 

To  reach  Mount  Saint  Helena  from  San  Francisco, 
the  traveller  has  twice  to  cross  the  bay:  once  by  the 
busy  Oakland  Ferry,  and  again,  after  an  hour  or  so  of 
the  railway,  from  Vallejo  junction  to  Vallejo.  Thence 
he  takes  rail  once  more  to  mount  the  long  green  strath 
of  Napa  Valley. 

In  all  the  contractions  and  expansions  of  that  inland 
sea,  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco,  there  can  be  few  drearier 
scenes  than  the  Vallejo  Ferry.  Bald  shores  and  a  low, 
bald  islet  inclose  the  sea;  through  the  narrows  the  tide 
bubbles,  muddy  like  a  river.  When  we  made  the  pas- 
sage (bound,  although  yet  we  knew  it  not,  for  Silverado) 
the  steamer  jumped,  and  the  black  buoys  were  danc- 
ing in  the  jabble;  the  ocean  breeze  blew  killing  chill; 
and,  although  the  upper  sky  was  still  unflecked  with 
vapour,  the  sea  fogs  were  pouring  in  from  seaward, 
over  the  hilltops  of  Marin  County,  in  one  great,  shape- 
less, silver  cloud. 

South  Vallejo  is  typical  of  many  Californian  towns. 
It  was  a  blunder;  the  site  has  proved  untenable;  and, 

316 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

although  it  is  still  such  a  young  place  by  the  scale  of 
Europe,  it  has  already  begun  to  be  deserted  for  its  neigh- 
bour and  namesake,  North  Vallejo.  A  long  pier,  a  num- 
ber of  drinking  saloons,  a  hotel  of  a  great  size,  marshy 
pools  where  the  frogs  keep  up  their  croaking,  and  even 
at  high  noon  the  entire  absence  of  any  human  face  or 
voice  —  these  are  the  marks  of  South  Vallejo.  Yet  there 
was  a  tall  building  beside  the  pier,  labelled  the  Star  Flour 
Mills ;  and  sea-going,  full-rigged  ships  lay  close  along 
shore,  waiting  for  their  cargo.  Soon  these  would  be 
plunging  round  the  Horn,  soon  the  flour  from  the  Star 
Flour  Mills  would  be  landed  on  the  wharves  of  Liver- 
pool. For  that,  too,  is  one  of  England's  outposts; 
thither,  to  this  gaunt  mill,  across  the  Atlantic  and  Pa- 
cific deeps  and  round  about  the  icy  Horn,  this  crowd 
of  great,  three-masted,  deep-sea  ships  come,  bringing 
nothing,  and  return  with  bread. 

The  Frisby  House,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  hotel, 
was  a  place  of  fallen  fortunes,  like  the  town.  It  was 
now  given  up  to  labourers,  and  partly  ruinous.  At  din- 
ner there  was  the  ordinary  display  of  what  is  called  in  the 
west  a  two-hit  house :  the  tablecloth  checked  red  and 
white,  the  plague  of  flies,  the  wire  hencoops  over  the 
dishes,  the  great  variety  and  invariable  vileness  of  the 
food  and  the  rough  coatless  men  devouring  it  in  silence. 
In  our  bedroom,  the  stove  would  not  burn,  though  it 
would  smoke ;  and  while  one  window  would  not  open, 
the  other  would  not  shut.  There  was  a  view  on  a  bit 
of  empty  road,  a  few  dark  houses,  a  donkey  wandering 
with  its  shadow  on  a  slope,  and  a  blink  of  sea,  with  a 
tall  ship  lying  anchored  in  the  moonlight.  All  about 
that  dreary  inn  frogs  sang  their  ungainly  chorus. 

3»7 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Early  the  next  morning  we  mounted  the  hill  along  a 
wooden  footway,  bridging  one  marish  spot  after  an- 
other. Here  and  there,  as  we  ascended,  we  passed  a 
house  embowered  in  white  roses.  More  of  the  bay  be- 
came apparent,  and  soon  the  blue  peak  of  Tamalpais 
rose  above  the  green  level  of  the  island  opposite.  It 
told  us  we  were  still  but  a  little  way  from  the  city  of 
the  Golden  Gates,  already,  at  that  hour,  beginning  to 
awake  among  the  sand-hills.  It  called  to  us  over  the 
waters  as  with  the  voice  of  a  bird.  Its  stately  head,  blue 
as  a  sapphire  on  the  paler  azure  of  the  sky,  spoke  to  us 
of  wider  outlooks  and  the  bright  Pacific.  For  Tamal- 
pais stands  sentry,  like  a  lighthouse,  over  the  Golden 
Gates,  between  the  bay  and  the  open  ocean,  and  looks 
down  indifferently  on  both.  Even  as  we  saw  and 
hailed  it  from  Vallejo,  seamen,  far  out  at  sea,  were  scan- 
ning it  with  shaded  eyes;  and,  as  if  to  answer  to  the 
thought,  one  of  the  great  ships  below  began  silently  to 
clothe  herself  with  white  sails,  homeward  bound  for 
England. 

For  some  way  beyond  Vallejo  the  railway  led  us 
through  bald  green  pastures.  On  the  west  the  rough 
highlands  of  Marin  shut  off  the  ocean;  .in  the  midst,  in 
long,  straggling,  gleaming  arms,  the  bay  died  out  among 
the  grass ;  there  were  few  trees  and  few  enclosures ;  the 
sun  shone  wide  over  open  uplands,  the  displumed  hills 
stood  clear  against  the  sky.  But  by-and-by  these  hills 
began  to  draw  nearer  on  either  hand,  and  first  thicket 
and  then  wood  began  to  clothe  their  sides ;  and  soon 
we  were  away  from  all  signs  of  the  sea's  neighbour- 
hood, mounting  an  inland,  irrigated  valley.  A  great 
variety  of  oaks  stood,  now  severally,  now  in  a  becoming 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

grove,  among  the  fields  and  vineyards.  The  towns  were 
compact,  in  about  equal  proportions,  of  bright,  new 
wooden  houses  and  great  and  growing  forest  trees; 
and  the  chapel  bell  on  the  engine  sounded  most  festally 
that  sunny  Sunday,  as  we  drew  up  at  one  green  town 
after  another,  with  the  townsfolk  trooping  in  their  Sun- 
day's best  to  see  the  strangers,  with  the  sun  sparkling 
on  the  clean  houses,  and  great  domes  of  foliage  hum- 
ming overhead  in  the  breeze. 

This  pleasant  Napa  Valley  is,  at  its  north  end,  block- 
aded by  our  mountain.  There,  at  Calistoga,  the  rail- 
road ceases,  and  the  traveller  who  intends  faring  farther, 
to  the  Geysers  or  to  the  springs  in  Lake  County,  must 
cross  the  spurs  of  the  mountain  by  stage.  Thus,  Mount 
Saint  Helena  is  not  only  a  summit,  but  a  frontier;  and, 
up  to  the  time  of  writing,  it  has  stayed  the  progress  of 
the  iron  horse. 


V9 


IN    THE    VALLEY 
CHAPTER  I 

CALISTOGA 

It  is  difficult  for  a  European  to  imagine  Calistoga,  the 
whole  place  is  so  new,  and  of  such  an  occidental  pat- 
tern ;  the  very  name,  I  hear,  was  invented  at  a  supper- 
party  by  the  man  who  found  the  springs. 

The  railroad  and  the  highway  come  up  the  valley 
about  parallel  to  one  another.  The  street  of  Calistoga 
joins  them,  perpendicular  to  both  —  a  wide  street,  with 
bright,  clean,  low  houses,  here  and  there  a  verandah 
over  the  sidewalk,  here  and  there  a  horse-post,  here  and 
there  lounging  townsfolk.  Other  streets  are  marked 
out,  and  most  likely  named ;  for  these  towns  in  the  New 
World  begin  with  a  firm  resolve  to  grow  larger,  Wash- 
ington and  Broadway,  and  then  First  and  Second,  and 
so  forth,  being  boldly  plotted  out  as  soon  as  the  com- 
munity indulges  in  a  plan.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  all  the 
life  and  most  of  the  houses  of  Calistoga  are  concentrated 
upon  that  street  between  the  railway  station  and  the 
road.  I  never  heard  it  called  by  any  name,  but  I  will 
hazard  a  guess  that  it  is  either  Washington  or  Broadway.  ^  ^  \' 
Here  are  the  blacksmith's,  the  chemist's,  the  general 
merchant's,  and  Kong  Sam  Kee,  the  Chinese  laundry- 
man's;  here,  probably,  is  the  oifice  of  the  local  paper 

320 


IN   THE  VALLEY 

(for  the  place  has  a  paper  —  they  all  have  papers);  and 
here  certainly  is  one  of  the  hotels,  Cheeseborough's, 
whence  the  daring  Foss,  a  man  dear  to  legend,  starts  his 
horses  for  the  Geysers. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  we  are  here  in  a  land  of 
stage-drivers  and  highwaymen:  a  land,  in  that  sense, 
like  England  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  highway  rob- 
ber —  road-agent,  he  is  quaintly  called  —  is  still  busy  in 
these  parts.  The  fame  of  Vasquez  is  still  young.  Only 
a  few  years  ago,  the  Lakeport  stage  was  robbed  a  mile  or 
two  from  Calistoga.  In  1879,  the  dentist  of  Mendocino 
City,  fifty  miles  away  upon  the  coast,  suddenly  threw  off 
the  garments  of  his  trade,  like  Grindofr,in  The  Miller  and 
his  Men,  and  flamed  forth  in  his  second  dress  as  a  cap- 
tain of  banditti.  A  great  robbery  was  followed  by  a 
long  chase,  a  chase  of  days  if  not  of  weeks,  among  the 
intricate  hill-country ;  and  the  chase  was  followed  by 
much  desultory  fighting,  in  which  several  —  and  the 
dentist,  I  believe,  amongst  the  number — bit  the  dust. 
The  grass  was  springing  for  the  first  time,  nourished  upon 
their  blood,  when  I  arrived  in  Calistoga.  I  am  reminded 
of  another  highwayman  of  that  same  year.  ''He  had 
been  unwell,"  so  ran  his  humorous  defence,  '*and  the 
doctor  told  him  to  take  something,  so  he  took  the  ex- 
press box." 

The  cultus  of  the  stage-coachman  always  flourishes 
highest  where  there  are  thieves  on  the  road,  and  where 
the  guard  travels  armed,  and  the  stage  is  not  only  a  link 
between  country  and  city,  and  the  vehicle  of  news,  but 
has  a  faint  warfaring  aroma,  like  a  man  who  should  be 
brother  to  a  soldier.  California  boasts  her  famous  stage- 
drivers,  and  among  the  famous  Foss  is  not  forgotten. 

321 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Along  the  unfenced,  abominable  mountain  roads,  he 
launches  his  team  with  small  regard  to  human  life  or  the 
doctrine  of  probabilities.  Flinching  travellers,  who  be- 
hold themselves  coasting  eternity  at  every  corner,  look 
with  natural  admiration  at  their  driver's  huge,  impas- 
sive, fleshy  countenance.  He  has  the  very  face  for  the 
driver  in  Sam  Weller's  anecdote,  who  upset  the  election 
party  at  the  required  point.  Wonderful  tales  are  current 
of  his  readiness  and  skill.  One  in  particular,  of  how  one 
of  his  horses  fell  at  a  ticklish  passage  of  the  road,  and 
how  Foss  let  slip  the  reins,  and,  driving  over  the  fallen 
animal,  arrived  at  the  next  stage  with  only  three.  This 
I  relate  as  I  heard  it,  without  guarantee. 

I  only  saw  Foss  once,  though,  strange  as  it  may 
sound,  I  have  twice  talked  with  him.  He  lives  out  of 
Calistoga,  at  a  ranche  called  Fossville.  One  evening, 
after  he  was  long  gone  home,  I  dropped  into  Cheese- 
borough's,  and  was  asked  if  I  should  like  to  speak  with 
Mr.  Foss.  Supposing  that  the  interview  was  impossi- 
ble, and  that  I  was  merely  called  upon  to  subscribe  the 
general  sentiment,  I  boldly  answered  **Yes."  Next 
moment,  I  had  one  instrument  at  my  ear,  another  at 
my  mouth,  and  found  myself,  with  nothing  in  the 
world  to  say,  conversing  with  a  man  several  miles  off 
among  desolate  hills.  Foss  rapidly  and  somewhat 
plaintively  brought  the  conversation  to  an  end ;  and  he 
returned  to  his  night's  grog  at  Fossville,  while  I  strolled 
forth  again  on  Calistoga  high  street.  But  it  was  an  odd 
thing  that  here,  on  what  we  are  accustomed  to  consider 
the  very  skirts  of  civilisation,  I  should  have  used  the 
telephone  for  the  first  time  in  my  civilised  career.  So  it 
goes  in  these  young  countries;  telephones,  and  tele- 

322  _ 


IN   THE  VALLEY 

graphs,  and  newspapers,  and  advertisements  running 
far  ahead  among  the  Indians  and  the  grizzly  bears. 

Alone,  on  the  other  side  of  the  railway,  stands  the 
Springs  Hotel,  with  its  attendant  cottages.  The  floor 
of  the  valley  is  extremely  level  to  the  very  roots  of  the 
hills ;  only  here  and  there  a  hillock,  crowned  with  pines, 
rises  like  the  barrow  of  some  chieftain  famed  in  war; 
and  right  against  one  of  these  hillocks  is  the  Springs 
Hotel  —  is  or  was;  for  since  I  was  there  the  place  has 
been  destroyed  by  fire,  and  has  risen  again  from  its 
ashes.  A  lawn  runs  about  the  house,  and  the  lawn  is 
in  its  turn  surrounded  by  a  system  of  little  five-roomed 
cottages,  each  with  a  verandah  and  a  weedy  palm  be- 
fore the  door.  Some  of  the  cottages  are  let  to  residents, 
and  these  are  wreathed  in  flowers.  The  rest  are  occu- 
pied by  ordinary  visitors  to  the  hotel ;  and  a  very  plea- 
sant way  this  is,  by  which  you  have  a  little  country 
cottage  of  your  own,  without  domestic  burthens,  and 
by  the  day  or  week. 

The  whole  neighbourhood  of  Mount  Saint  Helena  is 
full  of  sulphur  and  of  boiling  springs.  The  Geysers  are 
famous;  they  were  the  great  health  resort  of  the  Indians 
before  the  coming  of  the  whites.  Lake  County  is  dotted 
with  spas ;  Hot  Springs  and  White  Sulphur  Springs  are 
the  names  of  two  stations  on  the  Napa  Valley  railroad; 
and  Calistoga  itself  seems  to  repose  on  a  mere  film  above 
a  boiling,  subterranean  lake.  At  one  end  of  the  hotel 
enclosure  are  the  springs  from  which  it  takes  its  name, 
hot  enough  to  scald  a  child  seriously  while  I  was  there. 
At  the  other  end,  the  tenant  of  a  cottage  sank  a  well, 
and  there  also  the  water  came  up  boiling.  It  keeps  this 
end  of  the  valley  as  warm  as  a  toast.     I  have  gone 

323 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

across  to  the  hotel  a  little  after  five  in  the  morning,  when 
a  sea  fog  from  the  Pacific  was  hanging  thick  and  gray, 
and  dark  and  dirty  overhead,  and  found  the  thermom- 
eter had  been  up  before  me,  and  had  already  climbed 
among  the  nineties;  and  in  the  stress  of  the  day  it  was 
sometimes  too  hot  to  move  about. 

But  in  spite  of  this  heat  from  above  and  below,  doing 
one  on  both  sides,  Calistoga  was  a  pleasant  place  to 
dwell  in;  beautifully  green,  for  it  was  then  that  fa- 
voured moment  in  the  Californian  year,  when  the  rains 
are  over  and  the  dusty  summer  has  not  yet  set  in ;  often 
visited  by  fresh  airs,  now  from  the  mountain,  now 
across  Sonoma  from  the  sea ;  very  quiet,  very  idle,  very 
silent  but  for  the  breezes  and  the  cattle  bells  afield. 
And  there  was  something  satisfactory  in  the  sight  of 
that  great  mountain  that  enclosed  us  to  the  north: 
whether  it  stood,  robed  in  sunshine,  quaking  to  its  top- 
most pinnacle  with  the  heat  and  brightness  of  the  day; 
or  whether  it  set  itself  to  weaving  vapours,  wisp  after 
wisp  growing,  trembling,  fleeting,  and  fading  in  the 
blue. 

The  tangled,  woody,  and  almost  trackless  foothills 
that  enclose  the  valley,  shutting  it  off  from  Sonoma  on 
the  west,  and  from  Yolo  on  the  east  —  rough  as  they 
were  in  outline,  dug  out  by  winter  streams,  crowned  by 
cliffy  bluffs  and  nodding  pine  trees  —  were  dwarfed  into 
satellites  by  the  bulk  and  bearing  of  Mount  Saint  Helena. 
She  over-towered  them  by  two-thirds  of  her  own  stat- 
ure. She  excelled  them  by  the  boldness  of  her  profile. 
Her  great  bald  summit,  clear  of  trees  and  pasture,  a 
cairn  of  quartz  and  cinnabar,  rejected  kinship  with  the 
dark  and  shaggy  wilderness  of  lesser  hilltops. 

324 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   PETRIFIED   FOREST 

We  drove  off  from  the  Springs  Hotel  about  three  in 
the  afternoon.  The  sun  warmed  me  to  the  heart.  A 
broad,  cool  wind  streamed  pauselessly  down  the  valley, 
laden  with  perfume.  Up  at  the  top  stood  Mount  Saint 
Helena,  a  bulk  of  mountain,  bare  atop,  with  tree-fringed 
spurs,  and  radiating  warmth.  Once  we  saw  it  framed 
in  a  grove  of  tall  and  exquisitely  graceful  white  oaks,  in 
line  and  colour  a  finished  composition.  We  passed  a 
cow  stretched  by  the  roadside,  her  bell  slowly  beating 
time  to  the  movement  of  her  ruminating  jaws,  her  big 
red  face  crawled  over  by  half  a  dozen  flies,  a  monument 
of  content. 

A  little  farther,  and  we  struck  to  the  left  up  a  moun- 
tain road,  and  for  two  hours  threaded  one  valley  after 
another,  green,  tangled,  full  of  noble  timber,  giving  us 
every  now  and  again  a  sight  of  Mount  Saint  Helena  and 
the  blue  hilly  distance,  and  crossed  by  many  streams, 
through  which  we  splashed  to  the  carriage-step.  To 
the  right  or  the  left,  there  was  scarce  any  trace  of  man 
but  the  road  we  followed;  I  think  we  passed  but  one 
ranchero's  house  in  the  whole  distance,  and  that  was 
closed  and  smokeless.  But  we  had  the  society  of 
these  bright  streams  —  dazzlingly  clear,  as  is  their  wont, 

325 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Splashing  from  the  wheels  in  diamonds,  and  striking  a 
lively  coolness  through  the  sunshine.  And  what  with 
the  innumerable  variety  of  greens,  the  masses  of  foliage 
tossing  in  the  breeze,  the  glimpses  of  distance,  the  de- 
scents into  seemingly  impenetrable  thickets,  the  contin- 
ual dodging  of  the  road,  which  made  haste  to  plunge 
again  into  the  covert,  we  had  a  fine  sense  of  woods, 
and  spring-time,  and  the  open  air. 

Our  driver  gave  me  a  lecture  by  the  way  on  Califor- 
nian  trees  —  a  thing  I  was  much  in  need  of,  having  fal- 
len among  painters  who  know  the  name  of  nothing, 
and  Mexicans  who  know  the  name  of  nothing  in  English. 
He  taught  me  the  madrona,  the  manzanita,  the  buck- 
eye, the  maple;  he  showed  me  the  crested  mountain 
quail;  he  showed  me  where  some  young  redwoods 
were  already  spiring  heavenwards  from  the  ruins  of  the 
old;  for  in  this  district  all  had  already  perished:  red- 
woods and  redskins,  the  two  noblest  indigenous  living 
things,  alike  condemned. 

At  length,  in  a  lonely  dell,  we  came  on  a  huge  wooden 
gate  with  a  sign  upon  it  like  an  inn.  **The  Petrified 
Forest.  Proprietor :  C.  Evans, "  ran  the  legend.  Within, 
on  a  knoll  of  sward,  was  the  house  of  the  proprietor,  and 
another  smaller  house  hard  by  to  serve  as  a  museum, 
where  photographs  and  petrifactions  were  retailed.  It 
was  a  pure  little  isle  of  touristry  among  these  solitary 
hills. 

The  proprietor  was  a  brave  old  whitefaced  Swede. 
He  had  wandered  this  way.  Heaven  knows  how,  and 
taken  up  his  acres  —  I  forget  how  many  years  ago  — 
all  alone,  bent  double  with  sciatica,  and  with  six  bits  in 
his  pocket  and  an  axe  upon  his  shoulder.     Long,  useless 

326 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

years  of  seafaring  had  thus  discharged  him  at  the  end, 
penniless  and  sick.  Without  doubt  he  had  tried  his 
luck  at  the  diggings,  and  got  no  good  from  that ;  with- 
out doubt  he  had  loved  the  bottle,  and  lived  the  life  of 
Jack  ashore.  But  at  the  end  of  these  adventures,  here 
he  came ;  and,  the  place  hitting  his  fancy,  down  he  sat 
to  make  a  new  life  of  it,  far  from  crimps  and  the  salt  sea. 
And  the  very^sight  of  his  ranche  had  done  him  good.  It 
was  **  the  handsomest  spot  in  the  Californy  mountains." 
''Isn't  it  handsome,  now  ?  "  he  said.  Every  penny  he 
makes  goes  into  that  ranche  to  make  it  handsomer. 
Then  the  climate,  with  the  sea-breeze  every  afternoon  in 
the  hottest  summer  weather,  had  gradually  cured  the 
sciatica ;  and  his  sister  and  niece  were  now  domesticated 
with  him  for  company  —  or,  rather,  the  niece  came  only 
once  in  the  two  days,  teaching  music  the  meanwhile  in 
the  valley.  And  then,  for  a  last  piece  of  luck,  ''the 
handsomest  spot  in  the  Californy  mountains  "  had  pro- 
duced a  petrified  forest,  which  Mr.  Evans  now  shows  at 
the  modest  figure  of  half  a  dollar  a  head,  or  two-thirds 
of  his  capital  when  he  first  came  there  with  an  axe  and 
a  sciatica. 

This  tardy  favourite  of  fortune  —  hobbling  a  little,  I 
think,  as  if  in  memory  of  the  sciatica,  but  with  not  a 
trace  that  I  can  remember  of  the  sea — thoroughly  rural- 
ized from  head  to  foot,  proceeded  to  escort  us  up  the  hill 
behind  his  house. 

"Who  first  found  the  forest?"  asked  my  wife. 

"The  first?  I  was  that  man,"  said  he.  "I  was 
cleaning  up  the  pasture  for  my  beasts,  when  I  found 
this" — kicking  a  great  redwood,  seven  feet  in  diameter, 
that  lay  there  on  its  side,  hollow  heart,  clinging  lumps 

327 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

of  bark,  all  changed  into  gray  stone,  with  veins  of  quartz 
between  what  had  been  the  layers  of  the  wood. 

''  Were  you  surprised  ?  " 

**  Surprised  ?  No !  What  would  I  be  surprised  about  ? 
What  did  I  know  about  petrifactions — following  the  sea  ? 
Petrifaction !  There  was  no  such  word  in  my  language ! 
I  knew  about  putrefaction,  though !  1  thought  it  was  a 
stone;  so  would  you,  if  you  was  cleaning  up  pasture/' 

And  now  he  had  a  theory  of  his  own,  which  I  did 
not  quite  grasp,  except  that  the  trees  had  not  *'grewed  " 
there.  But  he  mentioned,  with  evident  pride,  that  he 
differed  from  all  the  scientific  people  who  had  visited 
the  spot;  and  he  flung  about  such  words  as  ''tufa"  and 
"silica"  with  careless  freedom. 

When  1  mentioned  I  was  from  Scotland,  '*  My  old 
country,"  he  said;  '*my  old  country" — with  a  smiling 
look  and  a  tone  of  real  affection  in  his  voice.  I  was 
mightily  surprised,  for  he  was  obviously  Scandinavian, 
and  begged  him  to  explain.  It  seemed  he  had  learned 
his  English  and  done  nearly  all  his  sailing  in  Scotch 
ships.  ' '  Out  of  Glasgow, "  said  he,  * '  or  Greenock ;  but 
that's  all  the  same — they  all  hail  from  Glasgow."  And 
he  was  so  pleased  with  me  for  being  a  Scotsman,  and 
his  adopted  compatriot,  that  he  made  me  a  present  of  a 
very  beautiful  piece  of  petrifaction  —  I  believe  the  most 
beautiful  and  portable  he  had. 

Here  was  a  man,  at  least,  who  was  a  Swede,  a  Scot, 
and  an  American,  acknowledging  some  kind  allegiance 
to  three  lands.  Mr.  Wallace's  Scoto-Circassian  will  not 
fail  to  come  before  the  reader.  I  have  myself  met  and 
spoken  with  a  Fifeshire  German,  whose  combination  of 
abominable  accents  struck  me  dumb.     But,  indeed,  I 

328 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

think  we  all  belong  to  many  countries.  And  perhaps 
this  habit  of  much  travel,  and  the  engendering  of  scat- 
tered friendships,  may  prepare  the  euthanasia  of  ancient 
nations. 

And  the  forest  itself.?  Well,  on  a  tangled,  briery  hill- 
side—  for  the  pasture  would  bear  a  little  further  cleaning 
up,  to  my  eyes  —  there  lie  scattered  thickly  various 
lengths  of  petrified  trunk,  such  as  the  one  already 
mentioned.  It  is  very  curious,  of  course,  and  ancient 
enough,  if  that  were  all.  Doubtless,  the  heart  of  the 
geologist  beats  quicker  at  the  sight ;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  was  mightily  unmoved.  Sight-seeing  is  the  art  of 
disappointment. 

"  There's  nothing  under  heaven  so  blue, 
That's  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to." 

But,  fortunately.  Heaven  rewards  us  with  many  agree- 
able prospects  and  adventures  by  the  way ;  and  some- 
times, when  we  go  out  to  see  a  petrified  forest,  pre- 
pares a  far  more  delightful  curiosity  in  the  form  of  Mr. 
Evans,  whom  may  all  prosperity  attend  throughout  a 
long  and  green  old  age. 


329 


CHAPTER  III 

NAPA  WINE 

I  WAS  interested  in  Californian  wine.  Indeed,  I  am 
interested  in  all  wines,  and  have  been  all  my  life,  from 
the  raisin  wine  that  a  schoolfellow  kept  secreted  in  his 
play-box  up  to  my  last  discovery,  those  notable  Valtel- 
lines  that  once  shone  upon  the  board  of  Caesar. 

Some  of  us,  kind  old  Pagans,  watch  with  dread  the 
shadows  falling  on  the  age:  how  the  unconquerable 
worm  invades  the  sunny  terraces  of  France,  and  Bor- 
deaux is  no  more,  and  the  Rhone  a  mere  Arabia  Petraea. 
Chateau  Neuf  is  dead,  and  I  have  never  tasted  it;  Her- 
mitage—  a  hermitage  indeed  from  all  life's  sorrows  — 
lies  expiring  by  the  river.  And  in  the  place  of  these 
imperial  elixirs,  beautiful  to  every  sense,  gem-hued, 
flower-scented,  dream-compellers : — behold  upon  the 
quays  at  Cette  the  chemicals  arrayed;  behold  the  an- 
alyst at  Marseilles,  raising  hands  in  obsecration,  attest- 
ing god  Lyoeus,  and  the  vats  staved  in,  and  the  dishonest 
wines  poured  forth  among  the  sea.  It  is  not  Pan  only ; 
Bacchus,  too,  is  dead. 

If  wine  is  to  withdraw  its  most  poetic  countenance, 
the  sun  of  the  white  dinner-cloth,  a  deity  to  be  invoked 
by  two  or  three,  all  fervent,  hushing  their  talk,  degust- 
ing  tenderly,  and  storing  reminiscences  —  for  a  bottle 

330 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

of  good  wine,  like  a  good  act,  shines  ever  in  the  retro- 
spect—  if  wine  is  to  desert  us,  go  thy  ways,  old  Jack! 
Now  we  begin  to  have  compunctions,  and  look  back 
at  the  brave  bottles  squandered  upon  dinner-parties, 
where  the  guests  drank  grossly,  discussing  politics  the 
while,  and  even  the  schoolboy  **took  his  whack,"  like 
liquorice  water.  And  at  the  same  time,  we  look  tim- 
idly forward,  with  a  spark  of  hope,  to  where  the  new 
lands,  already  weary  of  producing  gold,  begin  to  green 
with  vineyards.  A  nice  point  in  human  history  falls  to 
be  decided  by  Californian  and  Australian  wines. 

Wine  in  California  is  still  in  the  experimental  stage; 
and  when  you  taste  a  vintage,  grave  economical  ques- 
tions are  involved.  The  beginning  of  vine-planting  is 
like  the  beginning  of  mining  for  the  precious  metals: 
the  wine-grower  also  ' '  prospects. "  One  corner  of  land 
after  another  is  tried  with  one  kind  of  grape  after  an- 
other. This  is  a  failure;  that  is  better;  a  third  best. 
So,  bit  by  bit,  they  grope  about  for  their  Clos  Vougeot 
and  Lafite.  Those  lodes  and  pockets  of  earth,  more 
precious  than  the  precious  ores,  that  yield  inimitable 
fragrance  and  soft  fire ;  those  virtuous  Bonanzas,  where 
the  soil  has  sublimated  under  sun  and  stars  to  some- 
thing finer,  and  the  wine  is  bottled  poetry :  these  still 
lie  undiscovered ;  chaparral  conceals,  thicket  embowers 
them;  the  miner  chips  the  rock  and  wanders  farther, 
and  the  grizzly  muses  undisturbed.  But  there  they 
bide  their  hour,  awaiting  their  Columbus;  and  nature 
nurses  and  prepares  them.  The  smack  of  Californian 
earth  shall  linger  on  the  palate  of  your  grandson. 

Meanwhile  the  wine  is  merely  a  good  wine ;  the  best 
that  I  have  tasted  better  than  a  Beaujolais,  and  not  un- 

331 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

like.  But  the  trade  is  poor ;  it  lives  from  hand  to  mouth, 
putting  its  all  into  experiments,  and  forced  to  sell  its 
vintages.  To  find  one  properly  matured,  and  bearing 
its  own  name,  is  to  be  fortune's  favourite. 

Bearing  its  own  name,  I  say,  and  dwell  upon  the  in- 
nuendo. 

''You  want  to  know  why  California  wine  is  not  drunk 
in  the  States  ?"  a  San  Francisco  wine  merchant  said  to 
me,  after  he  had  shown  me  through  his  premises. 
"Well,  here's  the  reason." 

And  opening  a  large  cupboard,  fitted  with  many  little 
drawers,  he  proceeded  to  shower  me  all  over  with  a 
great  variety  of  gorgeously  tinted  labels,  blue,  red,  or 
yellow,  stamped  with  crown  or  coronet,  and  hailing 
from  such^a  profusion  of  clos  and  chdteaux,  that  a  single 
department  could  scarce  have  furnished  forth  the  names. 
But  it  was  strange  that  all  looked  unfamiliar. 

' '  Chateau  X ?  "  said  I.     "I  never  heard  of  that. " 

" I  dare  say  not,"  said  he.  "I  had  been  reading  one 
ofX 's  novels." 

They  were  all  castles  in  Spain !  But  that  sure  enough 
is  the  reason  why  California  wine  is  not  drunk  in  the 
States. 

Napa  valley  has  been  long  a  seat  of  the  wine-grow- 
ing industry.  It  did  not  here  begin,  as  it  does  too  often, 
in  the  low  valley  lands  along  the  river,  but  took  at  once 
to  the  rough  foothills,  where  alone  it  can  expect  to  pros- 
per. A  basking  inclination,  and  stones,  to  be  a  reservoir 
of  the  day's  heat,  seem  necessary  to  the  soil  for  wine ; 
the  grossness  of  the  earth  must  be  evaporated,  its  mar- 
row daily  melted  and  refined  for  ages ;  until  at  length 
these  clods  that  break  below  our  footing,  and  to  the  eye 

332 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

appear  but  common  earth,  are  truly  and  to  the  perceiv- 
ing mind,  a  masterpiece  of  nature.  The  dust  of  Riche- 
bourg,  which  the  wind  carries  away,  what  an  apotheosis 
of  the  dust!  Not  man  himself  can  seem  a  stranger 
child  of  that  brown,  friable  powder,  than  the  blood  and 
sun  in  that  old  flask  behind  the  faggots. 

A  Californian  vineyard,  one  of  man's  outposts  in  the 
wilderness,  has  features  of  its  own.  There  is  nothing 
here  to  remind  you  of  the  Rhine  or  Rhone,  of  the  low 
cote  d'or,  or  the  infamous  and  scabby  deserts  of  Cham- 
pagne; but  all  is  green,  solitary,  covert.  We  visited 
two  of  them,  Mr.  Schram's  and  Mr.  M'Eckron's,  sharing 
the  same  glen. 

Some  way  down  the  valley  below  Calistoga,  we 
turned  sharply  to  the  south  and  plunged  into  the  thick 
of  the  wood.  A  rude  trail  rapidly  mounting;  a  little 
stream  tinkling  by  on  the  one  hand,  big  enough  per- 
haps after  the  rains,  but  already  yielding  up  its  life; 
overhead  and  on  all  sides  a  bower  of  green  and  tangled 
thicket,  still  fragrant  and  still  flower-bespangled  by  the 
early  season,  where  thimble-berry  played  the  part  of 
our  English  hawthorn,  and  the  buck-eyes  were  putting 
forth  their  twisted  horns  of  blossom :  through  all  this, 
we  struggled  toughly  upwards,  canted  to  and  fro  by 
the  roughness  of  the  trail,  and  continually  switched 
across  the  face  by  sprays  of  leaf  or  blossom.  The  last 
is  no  great  inconvenience  at  home ;  but  here  in  Califor- 
nia it  is  a  matter  of  some  moment.  For  in  all  woods 
and  by  every  wayside  there  prospers  an  abominable 
shrub  or  weed,  called  poison-oak,  whose  very  neigh- 
bourhood is  venomous  to  some,  and  whose  actual  touch 
is  avoided  by  the  most  impervious. 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

The  two  houses,  with  their  vineyards,  stood  each  in 
a  green  niche  of  its  own  in  this  steep  and  narrow  forest 
dell.  Though  they  were  so  near,  there  was  already  a 
good  difference  in  level;  and  Mr.  M'Eckron's  head  must 
be  a  long  way  under  the  feet  of  Mr.  Schram.  No  more 
had  been  cleared  than  was  necessary  for  cultivation; 
close  around  each  oasis  ran  the  tangled  wood;  the  glen 
enfolds  them ;  there  they  lie  basking  in  sun  and  silence, 
concealed  from  all  but  the  clouds  and  the  mountain 
birds. 

Mr.  M'Eckron's  is  a  bachelor  establishment;  a  little 
bit  of  a  wooden  house,  a  small  cellar  hard  by  in  the  hill- 
side, and  a  patch  of  vines  planted  and  tended  single- 
handed  by  himself.  He  had  but  recently  begun;  his 
vines  were  young,  his  business  young  also ;  but  I  thought 
he  had  the  look  of  the  man  who  succeeds.  He  hailed 
from  Greenock :  he  remembered  his  father  putting  him 
inside  Mons  Meg,  and  that  touched  me  home;  and  we 
exchanged  a  word  or  two  of  Scotch,  which  pleased  me 
more  than  you  would  fancy. 

Mr.  Schram's,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  oldest  vine- 
yard in  the  valley,  eighteen  years  old,  I  think;  yet  he 
began  a  penniless  barber,  and  even  after  he  had  broken 
ground  up  here  with  his  black  malvoisies,  continued  for 
long  to  tramp  the  valley  with  his  razor.  Now,  his 
place  is  the  picture  of  prosperity:  stuffed  birds  in  the 
verandah,  cellars  far  dug  into  the  hillside,  and  resting 
on  pillars  like  a  bandit's  cave:  —  all  trimness,  varnish, 
flowers,  and  sunshine,  among  the  tangled  wildwood. 
Stout,  smiling  Mrs.  Schram,  who  has  been  to  Europe 
and  apparently  all  about  the  States  for  pleasure,  enter- 
tained Fanny  in  the  verandah,  while  I  was  tasting  wines 

334 


IN   THE  VALLEY 

in  the  cellar.  To  Mr.  Schram  this  was  a  solemn  office; 
his  serious  gusto  warmed  my  heart;  prosperity  had  not 
yet  wholly  banished  a  certain  neophite  and  girlish  trepi- 
dation, and  he  followed  every  sip  and  read  my  face  with 
proud  anxiety.  I  tasted  all.  I  tasted  every  variety  and 
shade  of  Schramberger,  red  and  white  Schramberger, 
Burgundy  Schramberger,  Schramberger  Hock,  Schram- 
berger Golden  Chasselas,  the  latter  with  a  notable  bou- 
quet, and  I  fear  to  think  how  many  more.  Much  of  it 
goes  to  London  —  most,  I  think;  and  Mr.  Schram  has  a 
great  notion  of  the  English  taste. 

In  this  wild  spot,  I  did  not  feel  the  sacredness  of  an- 
cient cultivation.  It  was  still  raw,  it  was  no  Marathon, 
and  no  Johannisberg;  yet  the  stirring  sunlight,  and  the 
growing  vines,  and  the  vats  and  bottles  in  the  cavern, 
made  a  pleasant  music  for  the  mind.  Here,  also,  earth's 
cream  was  being  skimmed  and  garnered;  and  the  Lon- 
don customers  can  taste,  such  as  it  is,  the  tang  of  the 
earth  in  this  green  valley.  So  local,  so  quintessential  is 
a  wine,  that  it  seems  the  very  birds  in  the  verandah 
might  communicate  a  flavour,  and  that  romantic  cellar 
influence  the  bottle  next  to  be  uncorked  in  Pimlico,  and 
the  smile  of  jolly  Mr.  Schram  might  mantle  in  the  glass. 

But  these  are  but  experiments.  All  things  in  this 
new  land  are  moving  farther  on :  the  wine-vats  and  the 
miner's  blasting  tools  but  picket  for  a  night,  like  Bed- 
ouin pavillions ;  and  to-morrow,  to  fresh  woods !  This 
stir  of  change  and  these  perpetual  echoes  of  the  moving 
footfall,  haunt  the  land.  Men  move  eternally,  still  chas- 
ing Fortune;  and,  fortune  found,  still  wander.  As  we 
drove  back  to  Calistoga,  the  road  lay  empty  of  mere 
passengers,  but  its  green  side  was  dotted  with  the 

3^5 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

camps  of  travelling  families :  one  cumbered  with  a  great 
waggonful  of  household  stuff,  settlers  going  to  occupy 
a  ranche  they  had  taken  up  in  Mendocino,  or  perhaps 
Tehama  County;  another,  a  party  in  dust  coats,  men 
and  women,  whom  we  found  camped  in  a  grove  on 
the  roadside,  all  on  pleasure  bent,  with  a  Chinaman  to 
cook  for  them,  and  who  waved  their  hands  to  us  as  we 
drove  by. 


33(y 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SCOT   ABROAD 

A  FEW  pages  back,  I  wrote  that  a  man  belonged,  in 
these  days,  to  a  variety  of  countries;  but  the  old  land 
is  still  the  true  love,  the  others  are  but  pleasant  infideli- 
ties. Scotland  is  indefinable;  it  has  no  unity  except 
upon  the  map.  Two  languages,  many  dialects,  innu- 
merable forms  of  piety,  and  countless  local  patriotisms 
and  prejudices,  part  us  among  ourselves  more  widely 
than  the  extreme  east  and  west  of  that  great  continent 
of  America.  When  I  am  at  home,  1  feel  a  man  from 
Glasgow  to  be  something  like  a  rival,  a  man  from  Barra 
to  be  more  than  half  a  foreigner.  Yet  let  us  meet  in 
some  far  country,  and,  whether  we  hail  from  the  braes 
of  Manor  or  the  braes  of  Mar,  some  ready-made  affec- 
tion joins  us  on  the  instant.  It  is  not  race.  Look  at  us. 
One  is  Norse,  one  Celtic,  and  another  Saxon.  It  is  not 
community  of  tongue.  We  have  it  not  among  our- 
selves ;  and  we  have  it  almost  to  perfection,  with  Eng- 
lish, or  Irish,  or  American.  It  is  no  tie  of  faith,  for  we 
detest  each  other's  errors.  And  yet  somewhere,  deep 
down  in  the  heart  of  each  one  of  us,  something  yearns 
for  the  old  land,  and  the  old  kindly  people. 

Of  all  mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  this  is  perhaps  the 

337 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

most  inscrutable.  There  is  no  special  loveliness  in  that 
gray  country,  with  its  rainy,  sea-beat  archipelago;  its 
fields  of  dark  mountains ;  its  unsightly  places,  black  with 
coal ;  its  treeless,  sour,  unfriendly  looking  corn-lands ;  its 
quaint,  gray,  castled  city,  where  the  bells  clash  of  a 
Sunday,  and  the  wind  squalls,  and  the  salt  showers  fly 
and  beat.  I  do  not  even  know  if  1  desire  to  live  there; 
but  let  me  hear,  in  some  far  land,  a  kindred  voice  sing 
out,  '*0h,  why  left  I  my  hame  ?"  and  it  seems  at  once 
as  if  no  beauty  under  the  kind  heavens,  and  no  society 
of  the  wise  and  good,  can  repay  me  for  my  absence 
from  my  country.  And  though  I  think  I  would  rather 
die  elsewhere,  yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  long  to  be 
buried  among  good  Scots  clods.  I  will  say  it  fairly,  it 
grows  on  me  with  every  year:  there  are  no  stars  so 
lovely  as  Edinburgh  street-lamps.  When  I  forget  thee, 
auld  Reekie,  may  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning! 

The  happiest  lot  on  earth  is  to  be  born  a  Scotchman. 
You  must  pay  for  it  in  many  ways,  as  for  all  other  ad- 
vantages on  earth.  You  have  to  learn  the  paraphrases 
and  the  shorter  catechism;  you  generally  take  to  drink; 
your  youth,  as  far  as  I  can  find  out,  is  a  time  of  louder 
war  against  society,  of  more  outcry  and  tears  and  tur- 
moil, than  if  you  had  been  born,  for  instance,  in  Eng- 
land. But  somehow  life  is  warmer  and  closer;  the 
hearth  burns  more  redly;  the  lights  of  home  shine 
softer  on  the  rainy  street;  the  very  names,  endeared 
in  verse  and  music,  cling  nearer  round  our  hearts.  An 
Englishman  may  meet  an  Englishman  to-morrow,  upon 
Chimborazo,  and  neither  of  them  care;  but  when  the 
Scotch  wine-grower  told  me  of  Mons  Meg,  it  was  like 
magic. 

33» 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

*•  From  the  dim  shieling  on  the  misty  island 
Mountains  divide  us,  and  a  world  of  seas; 
Yet  still  our  hearts  are  true,  our  hearts  are  Highland, 
And  we,  in  dreams,  behold  the  Hebrides." 

And,  Highland  and  Lowland,  all  our  hearts  are  Scotch. 

Only  a  few  days  after  1  had  seen  M'Eckron,  a  mes- 
sage reached  me  in  my  cottage.  It  was  a  Scotchman 
who  had  come  down  a  long  way  from  the  hills  to  map- 
ket.  He  had  heard  there  was  a  countryman  in  Calis- 
toga,  and  came  round  to  the  hotel  to  see  him.  We 
said  a  few  words  to  each  other;  we  had  not  much  to 
say  —  should  never  have  seen  each  other  had  we  stayed 
at  home,  separated  alike  in  space  and  in  society;  and 
then  we  shook  hands,  and  he  went  his  way  again  to 
his  ranche  among  the  hills,  and  that  was  all. 

Another  Scotchman  there  was,  a  resident,  who  for  the 
mere  love  of  the  common  country,  douce,  serious,  re- 
ligious man,  drove  me  all  about  the  valley,  and  took  as 
much  interest  in  me  as  if  I  had  been  his  son :  more,  per- 
haps ;  for  the  son  has  faults  too  keenly  felt,  while  the 
abstract  countryman  is  perfect  —  like  a  whiff  of  peats. 

And  there  was  yet  another.  Upon  him  I  came  sud- 
denly, as  he  was  calmly  entering  my  cottage,  his  mind 
quite  evidently  bent  on  plunder :  a  man  of  about  fifty, 
filthy,  ragged,  roguish,  with  a  chimney-pot  hat  and  a 
tail  coat,  and  a  pursing  of  his  mouth  that  might  have 
been  envied  by  an  elder  of  the  kirk.  He  had  just  such 
a  face  as  I  have  seen  a  dozen  times  behind  the  plate. 

''  Hullo,  sir! "  I  cried.     "  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

He  turned  round  without  a  quiver. 

"  You  are  a  Scotchman,  sir  ?  "  he  said  gravely.  "  So 
am  I;  I  come  from  Aberdeen.     This  is  my  card,"  pre- 

339 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

senting  me  with  a  piece  of  pasteboard  which  he  had 
raked  out  of  some  gutter  in  the  period  of  the  rains. 
**I  was  just  examining  this  palm,"  he  continued,  indi- 
cating the  misbegotten  plant  before  our  door,  **  which 
is  the  largest  specimen  I  have  yet  observed  in  Cali- 
foarnia." 

There  were  four  or  five  larger  within  sight.  But 
where  was  the  use  of  argument  ?  He  produced  a  tape- 
line,  made  me  help  him  to  measure  the  tree  at  the  level 
of  the  ground,  and  entered  the  figures  in  a  large  and 
filthy  pocket-book,  all  with  the  gravity  of  Solomon. 
He  then  thanked  me  profusely,  remarking  that  such  lit- 
tle services  were  due  between  countrymen ;  shook  hands 
with  me,  "for  auld  lang  syne,"  as  he  said;  and  took 
himself  solemnly  away,  radiating  dirt  and  humbug  as 
he  went. 

A  month  or  two  after  this  encounter  of  mine,  there 
came  a  Scot  to  Sacramento  —  perhaps  from  Aberdeen. 
Anyway,  there  never  was  any  one  more  Scotch  in  this 
wide  world.  He  could  sing  and  dance,  and  drink,  I 
presume;  and  he  played  the  pipes  with  vigour  and  suc- 
cess. All  the  Scotch  in  Sacramento  became  infatuated 
with  him,  and  spent  their  spare  time  and  money,  driv- 
ing him  about  in  an  open  cab,  between  drinks,  while  he 
blew  himself  scarlet  at  the  pipes.  This  is  a  very  sad 
story.  After  he  had  borrowed  money  from  every  one, 
he  and  his  pipes  suddenly  disappeared  from  Sacra- 
mento, and  when  I  last  heard,  the  police  were  looking 
for  him. 

I  cannot  say  how  this  story  amused  me,  when  I  felt 
myself  so  thoroughly  ripe  on  both  sides  to  be  duped  in 
the  same  way. 

340 


IN  THE  VALLEY 


It  is  at  least  a  curious  thing,  to  conclude,  that  the  races 
which  wander  widest,  Jews  and  Scotch,  should  be  the 
most  clannish  in  the  world.  But  perhaps  these  two  are 
cause  and  effect:  '*  For  ye  were  strangers  in  the  land  of 
Egypt." 


M» 


WITH  THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL 
CHAPTER  1 

TO  INTRODUCE  MR.  KELMAR 

One  thing  in  this  new  country  very  particularly  strikes 
a  stranger,  and  that  is  the  number  of  antiquities.  Al- 
ready there  have  been  many  cycles  of  population  suc- 
ceeding each  other,  and  passing  away  and  leaving  behind 
them  relics.  These,  standing  on  into  changed  times, 
strike  ^the  imagination  as  forcibly  as  any  pyramid  or 
feudal  tower.  The  towns,  like  the  vineyards,  are  ex- 
perimentally founded:  they  grow  great  and  prosper 
by  passing  occasions ;  and  when  the  lode  comes  to  an 
end,  and  the  miners  move  elsewhere,  the  town  remains 
behind  them,  like  Palmyra  in  the  desert.  I  suppose 
there  are,  in  no  country  in  the  world,  so  many  deserted 
towns  as  here  in  California. 

The  whole  neighbourhood  of  Mount  Saint  Helena, 
now  so  quiet  and  sylvan,  was  once  alive  with  mining 
camps  and  villages.  Here  there  would  be  two  thou- 
sand souls  under  canvas;  there  one  thousand  or  fifteen 
hundred  ensconced,  as  if  for  ever,  in  a  town  of  comfort- 
able houses.  But  the  luck  had  failed,  the  mines  petered 
out ;  and  the  army  of  miners  had  departed,  and  left  this 
quarter  of  the  world  to  the  rattlesnakes  and  deer  and 
grizzlies,  and  to  the  slower  but  steadier  advance  of  hus- 
bandry. 

342 


WITH  THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

It  was  with  an  eye  on  one  of  these  deserted  places. 
Pine  Flat,  on  the  Geysers  road,  that  we  had  come  first 
to  Calistoga.  There  is  something  singularly  enticing  in 
the  idea  of  going,  rent-free,  into  a  ready-made  house. 
And  to  the  British  merchant,  sitting  at  home  at  ease,  it 
may  appear  that,  with  such  a  roof  over  your  head  and  a 
spring  of  clear  water  hard  by,  the  whole  problem  of  the 
squatter's  existence  would  be  solved.  Food,  however, 
has  yet  to  be  considered.  I  will  go  as  far  as  most  peo- 
ple on  tinned  meats ;  some  of  the  brightest  moments  of 
my  life  were  passed  over  tinned  mulligatawney  in  the 
cabin  of  a  sixteen-ton  schooner,  storm-stayed  in  Portree 
Bay;  but  after  suitable  experiments,  I  pronounce  au- 
thoritatively that  man  cannot  live  by  tins  alone.  Fresh 
meat  must  be  had  on  an  occasion.  It  is  true  that  the 
great  Foss,  driving  by  along  the  Geysers  road,  wooden- 
faced,  but  glorified  with  legend,  might  have  been  in- 
duced to  bring  us  meat,  but  the  great  Foss  could  hardly 
bring  us  milk.  To  take  a  cow  would  have  involved 
taking  a  field  of  grass  and  a  milkmaid ;  after  which  it 
would  have  been  hardly  worth  while  to  pause,  and  we 
might  have  added  to  our  colony  a  flock  of  sheep  and  an 
experienced  butcher. 

It  is  really  very  disheartening  how  we  depend  on  other 
people  in  this  life.  "  Mihi  est  propositum,"  as  you  may 
see  by  the  motto,  *'id  quod  regibus;"  and  behold  it 
cannot  be  carried  out,  unless  I  find  a  neighbour  rolling 
in  cattle. 

Now,  my  principal  adviser  in  this  matter  was  one 
whom  I  will  call  Kelmar.  That  was  not  what  he  called 
himself,  but  as  soon  as  I  set  eyes  on  him,  I  knew  it  was 
or  ought  to  be  his  name ;  I  am  sure  it  will  be  his  name 

343 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

among  the  angels.  Kelmar  was  the  store-keeper,  a 
Russian  Jew,  good-natured,  in  a  very  thriving  way  of 
business,  and,  on  equal  terms,  one  of  the  most  service- 
able of  men.  He  also  had  something  of  the  expression 
of  a  Scotch  country  elder,  who,  by  some  peculiarity, 
should  chance  to  be  a  Hebrew.  He  had  a  projecting 
under  lip,  with  which  he  continually  smiled,  or  rather 
smirked.  Mrs.  Kelmar  was  a  singularly  kind  woman ; 
and  the  oldest  son  had  quite  a  dark  and  romantic  bear- 
ing, and  might  be  heard  on  summer  evenings  playing 
sentimental  airs  on  the  violin. 

I  had  no  idea,  at  the  time  I  made  his  acquaintance, 
what  an  important  person  Kelmar  was.  But  the  Jew 
store-keepers  of  California,  profiting  at  once  by  the 
needs  and  habits  of  the  people,  have  made  themselves 
in  too  many  cases  the  tyrants  of  the  rural  population. 
Credit  is  offered,  is  pressed  on  the  new  customer,  and 
when  once  he  is  beyond  his  depth,  the  tune  changes, 
and  he  is  from  thenceforth  a  white  slave.  I  believe, 
even  from  the  little  I  saw,  that  Kelmar,  if  he  choose  to 
put  on  the  screw,  could  send  half  the  settlers  packing 
in  a  radius  of  seven  or  eight  miles  round  Calistoga. 
These  are  continually  paying  him,  but  are  never  suffered 
to  get  out  of  debt.  He  palms  dull  goods  upon  them, 
for  they  dare  not  refuse  to  buy ;  he  goes  and  dines  with 
them  when  he  is  on  an  outing,  and  no  man  is  loudlier 
welcomed;  he  is  their  family  friend,  the  director  of  their 
business,  and,  to  a  degree  elsewhere  unknown  in  mod- 
ern days,  their  king. 

For  some  reason,  Kelmar  always  shook  his  head  at 
the  mention  of  Pine  Flat,  and  for  some  days  I  thought 
he  disapproved  of  the  whole  scheme  and  was  propor- 

344 


WITH  THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

tionately  sad.  One  fine  morning,  however,  he  met  me, 
wreathed  in  smiles.  He  had  found  the  very  place  for 
me  —  Silverado,  another  old  mining  town,  right  up  the 
mountain.  Rufe  Hanson,  the  hunter,  could  take  care  of 
us  —  fine  people  the  Hansons;  we  should  be  close  to 
the  Toll  House,  where  the  Lakeport  stage  called  daily ; 
it  was  the  best  place  for  my  health,  besides.  Rufe  had 
been  consumptive,  and  was  now  quite  a  strong  man, 
ain't  it  ?  In  short,  the  place  and  all  its  accompaniments 
seemed  made  for  us  on  purpose. 

He  took  me  to  his  back  door,  whence,  as  from  every 
point  of  Calistoga,  Mount  Saint  Helena  could  be  seen 
towering  in  the  air.  There,  in  the  nick,  just  where  the 
eastern  foothills  joined  the  mountain,  and  she  herself  be- 
gan to  rise  above  the  zone  of  forest — there  was  Silverado. 
The  name  had  already  pleased  me ;  the  high  station  pleased 
me  still  more.  I  began  to  inquire  with  some  eagerness. 
It  was  but  a  little  while  ago  that  Silverado  was  a  great 
place.  The  mine  —  a  silver  mine,  of  course  —  had 
promised  great  things.  There  was  quite  a  lively  popu- 
lation, with  several  hotels  and  boarding-houses;  and 
Kelmar  himself  had  opened  a  branch  store,  and  done 
extremely  well — '*  Ain't  it?"  he  said,  appealing  to  his 
wife.  And  she  said,  ''Yes;  extremely  well."  Now 
there  was  no  one  living  in  the  town  but  Rufe  the  hun- 
ter ;  and  once  more  I  heard  Rufe's  praises  by  the  yard, 
and  this  time  sung  in  chorus. 

I  could  not  help  perceiving  at  the  time  that  there  was 
something  underneath ;  that  no  unmixed  desire  to  have 
us  comfortably  settled  had  inspired  the  Kelmars  with 
this  flow  of  words.  But  I  was  impatient  to  be  gone,  to 
be  about  my  kingly  project ;  and  when  we  were  offered 

M5 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

seats  in  Kelmar's  waggon,  I  accepted  on  the  spot.  The 
plan  of  their  next  Sunday's  outing  took  them,  by  gopd 
fortune,  over  the  border  into  Lake  County.  They  v^ould 
carry  us  so  far,  drop  us  at  the  Toll  House,  present  us  to 
the  Hansons,  and  call  for  us  again  on  Monday  morning 
early. 


i46 


CHAPTER  11 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SILVERADO 

We  were  to  leave  by  six  precisely ;  that  was  solemnly 
pledged  on  both  sides ;  and  a  messenger  came  to  us  the 
last  thing  at  night,  to  remind  us  of  the  hour.  But  it  was 
eight  before  we  got  clear  of  Calistoga:  Kelmar,  Mrs. 
Kelmar,  a  friend  of  theirs  whom  we  named  Abramina, 
her  little  daughter,  my  wife,  myself,  and,  stowed  away 
behind  us,  a  cluster  of  ship's  coffee-kettles.  These  last 
were  highly  ornamental  in  the  sheen  of  their  bright  tin, 
but  I  could  invent  no  reason  for  their  presence.  Our 
carriageful  reckoned  up,  as  near  as  we  could  get  at  it, 
some  three  hundred  years  to  the  six  of  us.  Four  of  the 
six,  besides,  were  Hebrews.  But  I  never,  in  all  my  life, 
was  conscious  of  so  strong  an  atmosphere  of  holiday. 
No  word  was  spoken  but  of  pleasure ;  and  even  when 
we  drove  in  silence,  nods  and  smiles  went  round  the 
party  like  refreshments. 

The  sun  shone  out  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Close  at  the 
zenith  rode  the  belated  moon,  still  clearly  visible,  and, 
along  one  margin,  even  bright.  The  wind  blew  a  gale 
from  the  north ;  the  trees  roared ;  the  corn  and  the  deep 
grass  in  the  valley  fled  in  whitening  surges;  the  dust 
towered  into  the  air  along  the  road  and  dispersed  like 
the  smoke  of  battle.     It  was  clear  in  our  teeth  from  the 

34Z 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

first,  and  for  all  the  windings  of  the  road  it  managed  to 
keep  clear  in  our  teeth  until  the  end. 

For  some  two  miles  we  rattled  through  the  valley, 
skirting  the  eastern  foothills ;  then  we  struck  off  to  the 
right,  through  haugh-land,  and  presently,  crossing  a  dry 
water-course,  entered  the  Toll  road,  or,  to  be  more 
local,  entered  on  ''the  grade."  The  road  mounts  the 
near  shoulder  of  Mount  Saint  Helena,  bound  northward 
into  Lake  County.  In  one  place  it  skirts  along  the  edge 
of  a  narrow  and  deep  canon,  filled  with  trees,  and  I 
was  glad,  indeed,  not  to  be  driven  at  this  point  by  the 
dashing  Foss.  Kelmar,  with  his  unvarying  smile,  jog- 
ging to  the  motion  of  the  trap,  drove  for  all  the  world 
like  a  good,  plain,  country  clergyman  at  home;  and  I 
profess  I  blessed  him  unawares  for  his  timidity. 

Vineyards  and  deep  meadows,  islanded  and  framed 
with  thicket,  gave  place  more  and  more  as  we  ascended 
to  woods  of  oak  and  madrona,  dotted  with  enormous 
pines.  It  was  these  pines,  as  they  shot  above  the  lower 
wood,  that  produced  that  pencilling  of  single  trees  I  had 
so  often  remarked  from  the  valley.  Thence,  looking  up 
and  from  however  far,  each  fir  stands  separate  against 
the  sky  no  bigger  than  an  eyelash ;  and  all  together  lend 
a  quaint,  fringed  aspect  to  the  hills.  The  oak  is  no 
baby;  even  the  madrona,  upon  these  spurs  of  Mount 
Saint  Helena,  comes  to  a  fine  bulk  and  ranks  with 
forest  trees ;  but  the  pines  look  down  upon  the  rest  for 
underwood.  As  Mount  Saint  Helena  among  her  foot- 
hills, so  these  dark  giants  out-top  their  fellow-vege- 
tables. Alas !  if  they  had  left  the  redwoods,  the  pines, 
in  turn,  would  have  been  dwarfed.  But  the  redwoods, 
fallen  from  their  high  estate,  are  serving  as  family  bed- 

348 


WITH  THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL 

Steads,  or  yet  more  humbly  as  field  fences,  along  all 
Napa  Valley. 

A  rough  smack  of  resin  was  in  the  air,  and  a  crystal 
mountain  purity.  It  came  pouring  over  these  green 
slopes  by  the  oceanfuL  The  wood  sang  aloud,  and 
gave  largely  of  their  healthful  breath.  Gladness  seemed 
to  inhabit  these  upper  zones,  and  we  had  left  indiffer- 
ence behind  us  in  the  valley.  ''I  to  the  hills  will  lift 
mine  eyes!"  There  are  days  in  a  life  when  thus  to 
climb  out  of  the  lowlands,  seems  like  scaling  heaven. 

As  we  continued  to  ascend,  the  wind  fell  upon  us 
with  increasing  strength.  It  was  a  wonder  how  the 
two  stout  horses  managed  to  pull  us  up  that  steep  in- 
cline and  still  face  the  athletic  opposition  of  the  wind, 
or  how  their  great  eyes  were  able  to  endure  the  dust. 
Ten  minutes  after  we  went  by,  a  tree  fell,  blocking  the 
road;  and  even  before  us  leaves  were  thickly  strewn, 
and  boughs  had  fallen,  large  enough  to  make  the  pas- 
sage difficult.  But  now  we  were  hard  by  the  summit. 
The  road  crosses  the  ridge,  just  in  the  nick  that  Kel- 
mar  showed  me  from  below,  and  then,  without  pause, 
plunges  down  a  deep,  thickly  wooded  glen  on  the  far- 
ther side.  At  the  highest  point  a  trail  strikes  up  the 
main  hill  to  the  leftward ;  and  that  leads  to  Silverado. 
A  hundred  yards  beyond,  and  in  a  kind  of  elbow  of  the 
glen,  stands  the  Toll  House  Hotel.  We  came  up  the 
one  side,  were  caught  upon  the  summit  by  the  whole 
weight  of  the  wind  as  it  poured  over  into  Napa  Valley, 
and  a  minute  after  had  drawn  up  in  shelter,  but  all 
buffetted  and  breathless,  at  the  Toll  House  door. 

A  water-tank,  and  stables,  and  a  gray  house  of  two 
stories,  with  gable  ends  and  a  verandah,  are  jammed 

349 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

hard  against  the  hillside,  just  where  a  stream  has  cut  for 
itself  a  narrow  canon,  filled  with  pines.  The  pines  go 
right  up  overhead;  a  little  more  and  the  stream  might 
have  played,  like  a  fire-hose,  on  the  Toll  House  roof. 
In  front  the  ground  drops  as  sharply  as  it  rises  behind. 
There  is  just  room  for  the  road  and  a  sort  of  promon- 
tory of  croquet  ground,  and  then  you  can  lean  over  the 
edge  and  look  deep  below  you  through  the  wood.  I 
said  croquet  ground ,  not  green  ;  for  the  surface  was  of 
brown,  beaten  earth.  The  toll-bar  itself  was  the  only 
other  note  of  originality :  a  long  beam,  turning  on  a 
post,  and  kept  slightly  horizontal  by  a  counterweight 
of  stones.  Regularly  about  sundown  this  rude  barrier 
was  swung,  like  a  derrick,  across  the  road  and  made 
fast,  I  think,  to  a  tree  upon  the  farther  side. 

On  our  arrival  there  followed  a  gay  scene  in  the  bar. 
I  was  presented  to  Mr.  Corwin,  the  landlord;  to  Mr. 
Jennings,  the  engineer,  who  lives  there  for  his  health; 
to  Mr.  Hoddy,  a  most  pleasant  little  gentleman,  once  a 
member  of  the  Ohio  legislature,  again  the  editor  of  a 
local  paper,  and  now,  with  undiminished  dignity,  keep- 
ing the  Toll  House  bar.  I  had  a  number  of  drinks  and 
cigars  bestowed  on  me,  and  enjoyed  a  famous  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  Kelmar  in  his  glory,  friendly,  radiant, 
smiling,  steadily  edging  one  of  the  ship's  kettles  on  the 
reluctant  Corwin.  Corwin,  plainly  aghast,  resisted  gal- 
lantly, and  for  that  bout  victory  crowned  his  arms. 

At  last  we  set  forth  for  Silverado  on  foot.  Kelmar 
and  his  jolly  Jew  girls  were  full  of  the  sentiment  of 
Sunday  outings,  breathed  geniality  and  vagueness,  and 
suffered  a  little  vile  boy  from  the  hotel  to  lead  them 
here  and  there  about  the  woods.     For  three  people  all 

350 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

SO  old,  SO  bulky  in  body,  and  belonging  to  a  race  so 
venerable,  they  could  not  but  surprise  us  by  their  ex- 
treme and  almost  imbecile  youthfulness  of  spirit.  They 
were  only  going  to  stay  ten  minutes  at  the  Toll  House ; 
had  they  not  twenty  long  miles  of  road  before  them  on 
the  other  side  ?  Stay  to  dinner  ?  Not  they  !  Put  up 
the  horses  ?  Never.  Let  us  attach  them  to  the  veran- 
dah by  a  wisp  of  straw  rope,  such  as  would  not  have 
held  a  person's  hat  on  that  blustering  day.  And  with 
all  these  protestations  of  hurry,  they  proved  irrespon- 
sible like  children.  Kelmar  himself,  shrewd  old  Russian 
Jew,  with  a  smirk  that  seemed  just  to  have  concluded 
a  bargain  to  its  satisfaction,  intrusted  himself  and  us 
devoutly  to  that  boy.  Yet  the  boy  was  patently  falla- 
cious; and  for  that  matter  a  most  unsympathetic  urchin, 
raised  apparently  on  gingerbread.  He  was  bent  on  his 
own  pleasure,  nothing  else;  and  Kelmar  followed  him 
to  his  ruin,  with  the  same  shrewd  smirk.  If  the  boy 
said  there  was  "a  hole  there  in  the  hill" — a  hole,  pure 
and  simple,  neither  more  nor  less — Kelmar  and  his  Jew 
girls  would  follow  him  a  hundred  yards  to  look  com- 
placently down  that  hole.  For  two  hours  we  looked 
for  houses ;  and  for  two  hours  they  followed  us,  smell- 
ing trees,  picking  flowers,  foisting  false  botany  on  the 
unwary.  Had  we  taken  five,  with  that  vile  lad  to  head 
them  off  on  idle  divagations,  for  five  they  would  have 
smiled  and  stumbled  through  the  woods. 

However,  we  came  forth  at  length,  and  as  by  acci- 
dent, upon  a  lawn,  sparse  planted  like  an  orchard,  but 
with  forest  instead  of  fruit  trees.  That  was  the  site  of 
Silverado  mining  town.  A  piece  of  ground  was  levelled 
up,  where  Kelmar's  store  had  been ;  and  facing  that  we 

351 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

saw  Rufe  Hanson's  house,  still  bearing  on  its  front  the 
legend  Silverado  Hotel.  Not  another  sign  of  habitation. 
Silverado  town  had  all  been  carted  from  the  scene ;  one 
of  the  houses  was  now  the  schoolhouse  far  down  the 
road ;  one  was  gone  here,  one  there,  but  all  were  gone 
away.  It  was  now  a  sylvan  solitude,  and  the  silence 
was  unbroken  but  by  the  great,  vague  voice  of  the 
wind.  Some  days  before  our  visit,  a  grizzly  bear  had 
been  sporting  round  the  Hansons'  chicken-house. 

Mrs.  Hanson  was  at  home  alone,  we  found.  Rufe 
had  been  out  after  a  '*  bar,"  had  risen  late,  and  was  now 
gone,  it  did  not  clearly  appear  whither.  Perhaps  he  had 
had  wind  of  Kelmar's  coming,  and  was  now  ensconced 
among  the  underwood,  or  watching  us  from  the  shoul- 
der of  the  mountain.  We,  hearing  there  were  no  houses 
to  be  had,  were  for  immediately  giving  up  all  hopes  of 
Silverado.  But  this,  somehow,  was  not  to  Kelmar's 
fancy.  He  first  proposed  that  we  should  ''camp  some- 
veres  around,  ain't  it } "  waving  his  hand  cheerily  as 
though  to  weave  a  spell ;  and  when  that  was  firmly  re- 
jected, he  decided  that  we  must  take  up  house  with  the 
Hansons.  Mrs.  Hanson  had  been,  from  the  first,  flus- 
tered, subdued,  and  a  little  pale ;  but  from  this  propo- 
sition she  recoiled  with  haggard  indignation.  So  did 
we,  who  would  have  preferred,  in  a  manner  of  speaking, 
death.  But  Kelmar  was  not  to  be  put  by.  He  edged 
Mrs.  Hanson  into  a  corner,  where  for  a  long  time  he 
threatened  her  with  his  forefinger,  like  a  character  in 
Dickens;  and  the  poor  woman,  driven  to  her  entrench- 
ments, at  last  remembered  with  a  shriek  that  there  were 
still  some  houses  at  the  tunnel. 

Thither  we  went ;  the  Jews,  who  should  already  have 

352 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

been  miles  into  Lake  County,  still  cheerily  accompany- 
ing us.  For  about  a  furlong  we  followed  a  good  road 
along  the  hillside  through  the  forest,  until  suddenly  that 
road  widened  out  and  came  abruptly  to  an  end.  A  can- 
on, woody  below,  red,  rocky,  and  naked  overhead,  was 
here  walled  across  by  a  dump  of  rolling  stones,  danger- 
ously steep,  and  from  twenty  to  thirty  feet  in  height.  A 
rusty  iron  chute  on  wooden  legs  came  flying,  like  a 
monstrous  gargoyle,  across  the  parapet.  It  was  down 
this  that  they  poured  the  precious  ore ;  and  below  here 
the  carts  stood  to  wait  their  lading,  and  carry  it  mill- 
ward  down  the  mountain. 

The  whole  canon  was  so  entirely  blocked,  as  if  by 
some  rude  guerilla  fortification,  that  we  could  only 
mount  by  lengths  of  wooden  ladder,  fixed  in  the  hill- 
side. These  led  us  round  the  farther  corner  of  the  dump ; 
and  when  they  were  at  an  end,  we  still  persevered  over 
loose  rubble  and  wading  deep  in  poison  oak,  till  we 
struck  a  triangular  platform,  filling  up  the  whole  glen, 
and  shut  in  on  either  hand  by  bold  projections  of  the 
mountain.  Only  in  front  the  place  was  open  like  the 
proscenium  of  a  theatre,  and  we  looked  forth  into  a  great 
realm  of  air,  and  down  upon  treetops  and  hilltops,  and 
far  and  near  on  wild  and  varied  country.  The  place  still 
stood  as  on  the  day  it  was  deserted :  a  line  of  iron  rails 
with  a  bifurcation ;  a  truck  in  working  order ;  a  world 
of  lumber,  old  wood,  old  iron ;  a  blacksmith's  forge  on 
one  side,  half  buried  in  the  leaves  of  dwarf  madronas ; 
and  on  the  other,  an  old  brown  wooden  house. 

Fanny  and  I  dashed  at  the  house.  It  consisted  of  three 
rooms,  and  was  so  plastered  against  the  hill,  that  one 
room  was  right  atop  of  another,  that  the  upper  floor  was 

353 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

more  than  twice  as  large  as  the  lower,  and  that  all  three 
apartments  must  be  entered  from  a  different  side  and  level. 
Not  a  window-sash  remained.  The  door  of  the  lower 
room  was  smashed,  and  one  panel  hung  in  splinters. 
We  entered  that,  and  found  a  fair  amount  of  rubbish : 
sand  and  gravel  that  had  been  sifted  in  there  by  the 
mountain  winds;  straw,  sticks,  and  stones;  a  table,  a 
barrel ;  a  plate-rack  on  the  wall ;  two  home-made  boot- 
jacks, signs  of  miners  and  their  boots;  and  a  pair  of 
papers  pinned  on  the  boarding,  headed  respectively 
*' Funnel  No.  i,"  and  '*  Funnel  No.  2,"  but  with  the 
tails  torn  away.  The  window,  sashless  of  course,  was 
choked  with  the  green  and  sweetly  smelling  foliage  of 
a  bay ;  and  through  a  chink  in  the  floor,  a  spray  of  poison 
oak  had  shot  up  and  was  handsomely  prospering  in  the 
interior.  It  was  my  first  care  to  cut  away  that  poison  oak, 
Fanny  standing  by  at  a  respectful  distance.  That  was 
our  first  improvement  by  which  we  took  possession. 

The  room  immediately  above  could  only  be  entered 
by  a  plank  propped  against  the  threshold,  along  which 
the  intruder  must  foot  it  gingerly,  clutching  for  support 
to  sprays  of  poison  oak,  the  proper  product  of  the  coun- 
try. Herein  was,  on  either  hand,  a  triple  tier  of  beds, 
where  miners  had  once  lain ;  and  the  other  gable  was 
pierced  by  a  sashless  window  and  a  doorless  doorway 
opening  on  the  air  of  heaven,  five  feet  above  the  ground. 
As  for  the  third  room,  which  entered  squarely  from  the 
ground  level,  but  higher  up  the  hill  and  further  up  the 
canon,  it  contained  only  rubbish  and  the  uprights  for 
another  triple  tier  of  beds. 

The  whole  building  was  overhung  by  a  bold,  lion- 
like,  red  rock.     Poison  oak,  sweet  bay  trees,  calycan- 

354 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

thus,  brush,  and  chaparral,  grew  freely  but  sparsely  all 
about  it.  In  front,  in  the  strong  sunshine,  the  platform 
lay  overstrewn  with  busy  litter,  as  though  the  labours 
of  the  mine  might  begin  again  to-morrow  in  the 
morning. 

Following  back  into  the  cafion,  among  the  mass  of 
rotting  plant  and  through  the  flowering  bushes,  we 
came  to  a  great  crazy  staging,  with  a  wry  windlass  on 
the  top;  and  clambering  up,  we  could  look  into  an  open 
shaft,  leading  edgeways  down  into  the  bowels  of  the 
mountain,  trickling  with  water,  and  lit  by  some  stray 
sun-gleams,  whence  I  know  not.  In  that  quiet  place 
the  still,  far-away  tinkle  of  the  water-drops  was  loudly 
audible.  Close  by,  another  shaft  led  edgeways  up  into 
the  superincumbent  shoulder  of  the  hill.  It  lay  partly 
open ;  and  sixty  or  a  hundred  feet  above  our  head,  we 
could  see  the  strata  propped  apart  by  solid  wooden 
wedges,  and  a  pine,  half  undermined,  precariously 
nodding  on  the  verge.  Here  also  a  rugged,  horizontal 
tunnel  ran  straight  into  the  unsunned  bowels  of  the 
rock.  This  secure  angle  in  the  mountain's  flank  was, 
even  on  this  wild  day,  as  still  as  my  lady's  chamber. 
But  in  the  tunnel  a  cold,  wet  draught  tempestuously 
blew.  Nor  have  I  ever  known  that  place  otherwise 
than  cold  and  windy. 

Such  was  our  first  prospect  of  Juan  Silverado.  I  own 
I  had  looked  for  something  different :  a  clique  of  neigh- 
bourly houses  on  a  village  green,  we  shall  say,  all  empty 
to  be  sure,  but  swept  and  varnished;  a  trout  stream 
brawling  by ;  great  elms  or  chestnuts,  humming  with 
bees  and  nested  in  by  song-birds ;  and  the  mountains 
standing  round  about,  as  at  Jerusalem.     Here,  moun- 

355 


THE  SILVHRADO  SQUATTERS 

tain  and  house  and  the  old  tools  of  industry  were  all 
alike  rusty  and  downfalling.  The  hill  was  here  wedged 
up,  and  there  poured  forth  its  bowels  in  a  spout  of 
broken  mineral;  man  with  his  picks  and  powder,  and 
nature  with  her  own  great  blasting  tools  of  sun  and 
rain,  labouring  together  at  the  ruin  of  that  proud  moun- 
tain. The  view  up  the  canon  was  a  glimpse  of  devas- 
tation ;  dry  red  minerals  sliding  together,  here  and  there 
a  crag,  here  and  there  dwarf  thicket  clinging  in  the 
general  glissade,  and  over  all  a  broken  outline  trenching 
on  the  blue  of  heaven.  Downwards  indeed,  from  our 
rock  eyrie,  we  beheld  the  greener  side  of  nature;  and 
the  bearing  of  the  pines  and  the  sweet  smell  of  bays 
and  nutmegs  commended  themselves  gratefully  to  our 
senses.  One  way  and  another,  now  the  die  was  cast. 
Silverado  be  it! 

After  we  had  got  back  to  the  Toll  House,  the  Jews 
were  not  long  of  striking  forward.  But  I  observed  that 
one  of  the  Hanson  lads  came  down,  before  their  de- 
parture, and  returned  with  a  ship's  kettle.  Happy  Han- 
sons! Nor  was  it  until  after  Kelmar  was  gone,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  that  Rufe  put  in  an  appearance  to 
arrange  the  details  of  our  installation. 

The  latter  part  of  the  day,  Fanny  and  I  sat  in  the  ve- 
randah of  the  Toll  House,  utterly  stunned  by  the  up- 
roar of  the  wind  among  the  trees  on  the  other  side  of 
the  valley.  Sometimes,  we  would  have  it  it  was  like  a 
sea,  but  it  was  not  various  enough  for  that ;  and  again, 
we  thought  it  like  the  roar  of  a  cataract,  but  it  was  too 
changeful  for  the  cataract ;  and  then  we  would  decide, 
speaking  in  sleepy  voices,  that  it  could  be  compared 
with  nothing  but  itself.     My  mind  was  entirely  preoc- 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

cupied  by  the  noise.  I  hearkened  to  it  by  the  hour, 
gapingly  hearkened,  and  let  my  cigarette  go  out. 
Sometimes  the  wind  would  make  a  sally  nearer  hand, 
and  send  a  shrill,  whistling  crash  among  the  foliage  on 
our  side  of  the  glen;  and  sometimes  a  backdraught 
would  strike  into  the  elbow  where  we  sat,  and  cast  the 
gravel  and  torn  leaves  into  our  faces.  But  for  the  most 
part,  this  great,  streaming  gale  passed  unweariedly  by 
us  into  Napa  Valley,  not  two  hundred  yards  away, 
visible  by  the  tossing  boughs,  stunningly  audible,  and 
yet  not  moving  a  hair  upon  our  heads.  So  it  blew  all 
night  long  while  I  was  writing  up  my  journal,  and  after 
we  were  in  bed,  under  a  cloudless,  starset  heaven ;  and 
so  it  was  blowing  still  next  morning  when  we  rose. 

It  was  a  laughable  thought  to  us,  what  had  become 
of  our  cheerful,  wandering  Hebrews.  We  could  not 
suppose  they  had  reached  a  destination.  The  meanest 
boy  could  lead  them  miles  out  of  their  way  to  see  a 
gopher-hole.  Boys,  we  felt  to  be  their  special  danger; 
none  others  were  of  that  exact  pitch  of  cheerful  irrele- 
vancy to  exercise  a  kindred  sway  upon  their  minds: 
but  before  the  attractions  of  a  boy  their  most  settled 
resolutions  would  be  wax.  We  thought  we  could  fol- 
low in  fancy  these  three  aged  Hebrew  truants  wander- 
ing in  and  out  on  hilltop  and  in  thicket,  a  demon  boy 
trotting  far  ahead,  their  will-o'-the-wisp  conductor; 
and  at  last  about  midnight,  the  wind  still  roaring  in  the 
darkness,  we  had  a  vision  of  all  three  on  their  knees 
upon  a  mountain-top  around  a  glow-worm. 


357 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   RETURN 

Next  morning  we  were  up  by  half-past  five,  accord- 
ing to  agreement,  and  it  was  ten  by  the  clock  before 
our  Jew  boys  returned  to  pick  us  up:  Kelmar,  Mrs. 
Kelmar,  and  Abramina,  all  srailing  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
full  of  tales  of  the  hospitality  they  had  found  on  the 
other  side.  It  had  not  gone  unrewarded ;  for  I  observed 
with  interest  that  the  ship's  kettles,  all  but  one,  had 
been  ''placed."  Three  Lake  County  families,  at  least, 
endowed  for  life  with  a  ship's  kettle.  Come,  this  was 
no  misspent  Sunday.  The  absence  of  the  kettles  told 
its  own  story :  our  Jews  said  nothing  about  them ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  said  many  kind  and  comely 
things  about  the  people  they  had  met.  The  two 
women,  in  particular,  had  been  charmed  out  of  them- 
selves by  the  sight  of  a  young  girl  surrounded  by  her 
admirers;  all  evening,  it  appeared,  they  had  been  tri- 
umphing together  in  the  girl's  innocent  successes,  and 
to  this  natural  and  unselfish  joy  they  gave  expression 
in  language  that  was  beautiful  by  its  simplicity  and 
truth. 

Take  them  for  all  in  all,  few  people  have  done  my 
heart  more  good ;  they  seemed  so  thoroughly  entitled  to 
happiness,  and  to  enjoy  it  in  so  large  a  measure  and  so 

358 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL 

free  from  after-thought ;  almost  they  persuaded  me  to  be 
a  Jew.  There  was,  indeed,  a  chink  of  money  in  their 
talk.  They  particularly  commended  people  who  were 
well  to  do.  ""  He  don't  care  —  ain't  it?"  was  their 
highest  word  of  commendation  to  an  individual  fate; 
and  here  I  seem  to  grasp  the  root  of  their  philosophy  — 
it  was  to  be  free  from  care,  to  be  free  to  make  these 
Sunday  wanderings,  that  they  so  eagerly  pursued  after 
wealth ;  and  all  this  carefulness  was  to  be  careless.  The 
fine,  good  humour  of  all  three  seemed  to  declare  they 
had  attained  their  end.  Yet  there  was  the  other  side 
to  it;  and  the  recipients  of  kettles  perhaps  cared  greatly. 
No  sooner  had  they  returned,  than  the  scene  of  yes- 
terday began  again.  The  horses  were  not  even  tied 
with  a  straw  rope  this  time  —  it  was  not  worth  while ; 
and  Kelmar  disappeared  into  the  bar,  leaving  them  un- 
der a  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  I  had  to  devote 
myself  I  stood  under  the  shadow  of  that  tree  for,  I 
suppose,  hard  upon  an  hour,  and  had  not  the  heart  to 
be  angry.  Once  some  one  remembered  me,  and  brought 
me  out  a  half  a  tumblerful  of  the  playful,  innocuous 
American  cocktail.  I  drank  it,  and  lo !  veins  of  living 
fire  ran  down  my  leg ;  and  then  a  focus  of  conflagration 
remained  seated  in  my  stomach,  not  unpleasantly,  for 
quarter  of  an  hour.  I  love  these  sweet,  fiery  pangs, 
but  I  will  not  court  them.  The  bulk  of  the  time  I  spent 
in  repeating  as  much  French  poetry  as  I  could  remem- 
ber to  the  horses,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  it  hugely.  And 
now  it  went  — 

"  O  ma  vieille  Font-georges 
Ou  volent  les  rouges-gorges:  " 
359 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

and  again,  to  a  more  trampling  measure  — 

**  Et  tout  tremble,  Irun,  Coimbre, 
Santander,  Almodovar, 
Sitot  qu'on  entend  le  timbre 
Descymbales  de  Bivar." 

The  redbreasts  and  the  brooks  of  Europe,  in  that  dry  and 
songless  land ;  brave  old  names  and  wars,  strong  cities, 
cymbals,  and  bright  armour,  in  that  nook  of  the  moun- 
tain, sacred  only  to  the  Indian  and  the  bear!  This  is 
still  the  strangest  thing  in  all  man's  travelling,  that  he 
should  carry  about  with  him  incongruous  memories. 
There  is  no  foreign  land ;  it  is  the  traveller  only  that  is 
foreign,  and  now  and  again,  by  a  flash  of  recollection, 
lights  up  the  contrasts  of  the  earth. 

But  while  I  was  thus  wandering  in  my  fancy,  great 
feats  had  been  transacted  in  the  bar.  Corwin  the  bold 
had  fallen,  Kelmar  was  again  crowned  with  laurels,  and 
the  last  of  the  ship's  kettles  had  changed  hands.  If  I 
had  ever  doubted  the  purity  of  Kelmar's  motives,  if  I 
had  ever  suspected  him  of  a  single  eye  to  business  in  his 
eternal  dallyings,  now  at  least,  when  the  last  kettle  was 
disposed  of,  my  suspicions  must  have  been  allayed.  I 
dare  not  guess  how  much  more  time  was  wasted;  nor 
how  often  we  drove  off,  merely  to  drive  back  again  and 
renew  interrupted  conversations  about  nothing,  before 
the  Toll  House  was  fairly  left  behind.  Alas!  and  not 
a  mile  down  the  grade  there  stands  a  ranche  in  a  sunny 
vineyard,  and  here  we  must  all  dismount  again  and 
enter. 

Only  the  old  lady  was  at  home,  Mrs.  Guele,  a  brown 
old  Swiss  dame,  the  picture  of  honesty ;  and  with  her 

360 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL 

we  drank  a  bottle  of  wine  and  had  an  age-long  conver- 
sation, which  would  have  been  highly  delightful  if 
Fanny  and  I  had  not  been  faint  with  hunger.  The  ladies 
each  narrated  the  story  of  her  marriage,  our  two  Hebrews 
with  the  prettiest  combination  of  sentiment  and  finan- 
cial bathos.  Abramina,  specially,  endeared  herself  with 
every  word.  She  was  as  simple,  natural,  and  engaging 
as  a  kid  that  should  have  been  brought  up  to  the  busi- 
ness of  a  money-changer.  One  touch  was  so  resplen- 
dently  Hebraic  that  I  cannot  pass  it  over.  When  her 
''old  man"  wrote  home  for  her  from  America,  her  old 
man's  family  would  not  intrust  her  with  the  money  for 
the  passage,  till  she  had  bound  herself  by  an  oath  —  on 
her  knees,  I  think  she  said  —  not  to  employ  it  otherwise. 
This  had  tickled  Abramina  hugely,  but  I  think  it  tickled 
me  fully  more. 

Mrs.  Guele  told  of  her  home-sickness  up  here  in  the 
long  winters ;  of  her  honest,  country-woman  troubles 
and  alarms  upon  the  journey ;  how  in  the  bank  at  Frank- 
fort she  had  feared  lest  the  banker,  after  having  taken 
her  cheque,  should  deny  all  knowledge  of  it  —  a  fear  I 
have  myself  every  time  I  go  to  a  bank ;  and  how  cross- 
ing the  Luneburger  Heath,  an  old  lady,  witnessing  her 
trouble  and  finding  whither  she  was  bound,  had  given 
her  "the  blessing  of  a  person  eighty  years  old,  which 
would  be  sure  to  bring  her  safely  to  the  States.  And 
the  first  thing  I  did,"  added  Mrs.  Guele,  ''was  to  fall 
downstairs. " 

At  length  we  got  out  of  the  house,  and  some  of  us 
into  the  trap,  when  —  judgment  of  Heaven !  —  here  came 
Mr.  Guele  from  his  vineyard.  So  another  quarter  of  an 
hour  went  by ;  till  at  length,  at  our  earnest  pleading,  we 

361 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

set  forth  again  in  earnest,  Fanny  and  I  white-faced  and 
silent,  but  the  Jews  still  smiling.  The  heart  fails  me. 
There  was  yet  another  stoppage !  And  we  drove  at  last 
into  Calistoga  past  two  in  the  afternoon,  Fanny  and  I 
having  breakfasted  at  six  in  the  morning,  eight  mortal 
hours  before.  We  were  a  pallid  couple;  but  still  the 
Jews  were  smiling. 

So  ended  our  excursion  with  the  village  usurers ;  and, 
now  that  it  was  done,  we  had  no  more  idea  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  business,  nor  of  the  part  we  had  been  playing 
in  it,  than  the  child  unborn.  That  all  the  people  we  had 
met  were  the  slaves  of  Kelmar,  though  in  various  de- 
grees of  servitude;  that  we  ourselves  had  been  sent  up 
the  mountain  in  the  interests  of  none  but  Kelmar;  that 
the  money  we  laid  out,  dollar  by  dollar,  cent  by  cent, 
and  through  the  hands  of  various  intermediaries,  should 
all  hop  ultimately  into  Kelmar's  till ;  —  these  were  facts 
that  we  only  grew  to  recognise  in  the  course  of  time 
and  by  the  accumulation  of  evidence.  At  length  all 
doubt  was  quieted,  when  one  of  the  kettle-holders  con- 
fessed. Stopping  his  trap  in  the  moonlight,  a  little  way 
out  of  Calistoga,  he  told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  he 
dare  not  show  face  there  with  an  empty  pocket.  ''You 
see,  I  don't  mind  if  it  was  only  five  dollars,  Mr.  Stevens," 
he  said,  *'but  I  must  give  Mr.  Kelmar  something." 

Even  now,  when  the  whole  tyranny  is  plain  to  me, 
I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  be  as  angry  as  perhaps  I 
should  be  with  the  Hebrew  tyrant.  The  whole  game 
of  business  is  beggar  my  neighbour;  and  though  per- 
haps that  game  looks  uglier  when  played  at  such  close 
quarters  and  on  so  small  a  scale,  it  is  none  the  more  in- 
trinsically inhumane  for  that.     The  village  usurer  is  not 

362 


WITH   THE  CHILDREN   OF  ISRAEL 

SO  sad  a  feature  of  humanity  and  human  progress  as  the 
millionaire  manufacturer,  fattening  on  the  toil  and  loss 
of  thousands,  and  yet  declaiming  from  the  platform 
against  the  greed  and  dishonesty  of  landlords.  If  it  were 
fair  for  Cobden  to  buy  up  land  from  owners  whom  he 
thought  unconscious  of  its  proper  value,  it  was  fair 
enough  for  my  Russian  Jew  to  give  credit  to  his  farm- 
ers. Kelmar,  if  he  was  unconscious  of  the  beam  in  his 
own  eye,  was  at  least  silent  in  the  matter  of  his  broth- 
er's mote. 


3^3 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

There  were  four  of  us  squatters  —  myself  and  my 
wife,  the  King  and  Queen  of  Silverado;  Sam,  the  Crown 
Prince;  and  Chuchu,  the  Grand  Duke.  Chuchu,  a  set- 
ter crossed  with  spaniel,  was  the  most  unsuited  for  a 
rough  life.  He  had  been  nurtured  tenderly  in  the  soci- 
ety of  ladies ;  his  heart  was  large  and  soft ;  he  regarded 
the  sofa-cushion  as  a  bed-rock  necessary  of  existence. 
Though  about  the  size  of  a  sheep,  he  loved  to  sit  in 
ladies'  laps ;  he  never  said  a  bad  word  in  all  his  blame- 
less days ;  and  if  he  had  seen  a  flute,  1  am  sure  he  could 
have  played  upon  it  by  nature.  It  may  seem  hard  to 
say  it  of  a  dog,  but  Chuchu  was  a  tame  cat. 

The  ki^.g  and  queen,  the  grand  duke,  and  a  basket  of 
cold  provender  for  immediate  use,  set  forth  from  Calis- 
toga  in  a  double  buggy ;  the  crown  prince,  on  horse- 
back, led  the  way  like  an  outrider.  Bags  and  boxes 
and  a  second-hand  stove  were  to  follow  close  upon  our 
heels  by  Hanson's  team. 

It  was  a  beautiful  still  day ;  the  sky  was  one  field  of 
azure.  Not  a  leaf  moved,  not  a  speck  appeared  in  heaven. 
Only  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain  one  little  snowy 
wisp  of  cloud  after  another  kept  detaching  itself,  like 
smoke  from  a  volcano,  and  blowing  southward  in  some 
high  stream  of  air:  Mount  Saint  Helena  still  at  her  inter- 
minable task,  making  the  weather,  like  a  Lapland  witch. 

364 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

By  noon  we  had  come  in  sight  of  the  mill :  a  great 
brown  building,  half-way  up  the  hill,  big  as  a  factory, 
two  stories  high,  and  with  tanks  and  ladders  along  the 
roof;  which,  as  a  pendicle  of  Silverado  mine,  we  held 
to  be  an  outlying  province  of  our  own.  Thither,  then, 
we  went,  crossing  the  valley  by  a  grassy  trail;  and 
there  lunched  out  of  the  basket,  sitting  in  a  kind  of  por- 
tico, and  wondering,  while  we  ate,  at  this  great  bulk 
of  useless  building.  Through  a  chink  we  could  look  far 
down  into  the  interior,  and  see  sunbeams  floating  in 
the  dust  and  striking  on  tier  after  tier  of  silent,  rusty 
machinery.  It  cost  six  thousand  dollars,  twelve  hun- 
dred English  sovereigns;  and  now,  here  it  stands  de- 
serted, like  the  temple  of  a  forgotten  religion,  the  busy 
millers  toiling  somewhere  else.  All  the  time  we  were 
there,  mill  and  mill  town  showed  no  sign  of  life;  that 
part  of  the  mountain-side,  which  is  very  open  and 
green,  was  tenanted  by  no  living  creature  but  ourselves 
and  the  insects ;  and  nothing  stirred  but  the  cloud  manu- 
factory upon  the  mountain  summit.  It  was  odd  to  com- 
pare this  with  the  former  days,  when  the  engine  was  in 
full  blast,  the  mill  palpitating  to  its  strokes,  and  the  carts 
came  rattling  down  from  Silverado,  charged  with  ore. 

By  two  we  had  been  landed  at  the  mine,  the  buggy 
was  gone  again,  and  we  were  left  to  our  own  reflections 
and  the  basket  of  cold  provender,  until  Hanson  should 
arrive.  Hot  as  it  was  by  the  sun,  there  was  something 
chill  in  such  a  home-coming,  in  that  world  of  wreck 
and  rust,  splinter  and  rolling  gravel,  where  for  so  many 
years  no  fire  had  smoked. 

Silverado  platform  filled  the  whole  width  of  the  can- 
on.   Above,  as  I  have  said,  this  was  a  wild,  red,  stony 

365 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

gully  in  the  mountains;  but  below  it  was  a  wooded 
dingle.  And  through  this,  1  was  told,  there  had  gone 
a  path  between  the  mine  and  the  Toll  House — our 
natural  north-west  passage  to  civilization.  I  found  and 
followed  it,  clearing  my  way  as  I  went  through  fallen 
branches  and  dead  trees.  It  went  straight  down  that  steep 
canon,  till  it  brought  you  out  abruptly  over  the  roofs 
of  the  hotel.  There  was  nowhere  any  break  in  the  de- 
scent. It  almost  seemed  as  if,  were  you  to  drop  a  stone 
down  the  old  iron  chute  at  our  platform,  it  would  never 
rest  until  it  hopped  upon  the  Toll  House  shingles.  Signs 
were  not  wanting  of  the  ancient  greatness  of  Silverado. 
The  footpath  was  well  marked,  and  had  been  well  trod- 
den in  the  old  days  by  thirsty  miners.  And  far  down, 
buried  in  foliage,  deep  out  of  sight  of  Silverado,  I  came 
on  a  last  outpost  of  the  mine — a  mound  of  gravel,  some 
wreck  of  wooden  aqueduct,  and  the  mouth  of  a  tunnel, 
like  a  treasure  grotto  in  a  fairy  story.  A  stream  of  water, 
fed  by  the  invisible  leakage  from  our  shaft,  and  dyed 
red  with  cinnabar  or  iron,  ran  trippingly  forth  out  of 
the  bowels  of  the  cave;  and,  looking  far  under  the  arch, 
I  could  see  something  like  an  iron  lantern  fastened  on 
the  rocky  wall.  It  was  a  promising  spot  for  the  imagi- 
nation.    No  boy  could  have  left  it  unexplored. 

The  stream  thenceforward  stole  along  the  bottom  of 
the  dingle,  and  made,  for  that  dry  land,  a  pleasant 
warbling  in  the  leaves.  Once,  I  suppose,  it  ran  splash- 
ing down  the  whole  length  of  the  canon,  but  now  its 
head  waters  had  been  tapped  by  the  shaft  at  Silverado, 
and  for  a  great  part  of  its  course  it  wandered  sunless 
among  the  joints  of  the  mountain.  No  wonder  that  it 
should  better  its  pace  when  it  sees,  far  before  it,  day- 

366 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

light  whitening  in  the  arch,  or  that  it  should  come 
trotting  forth  into  the  sunlight  with  a  song. 

The  two  stages  had  gone  by  when  I  got  down,  and 
the  Toll  House  stood,  dozing  in  sun  and  dust  and 
silence,  like  a  place  enchanted.  My  mission  was  after 
hay  for  bedding,  and  that  I  was  readily  promised.  But 
when  I  mentioned  that  we  were  waiting  for  Rufe,  the 
people  shook  their  heads.    Rufe  was  not  a  regular  man 

any  way,  it  seemed;  and  if  he  got  playing  poker 

Well,  poker  was  too  many  for  Rufe.  I  had  not  yet 
heard  them  bracketted  together;  but  it  seemed  a  natu- 
ral conjunction,  and  commended  itself  swiftly  to  my 
fears ;  and  as  soon  as  I  returned  to  Silverado  and  had 
told  my  story,  we  practically  gave  Hanson  up,  and  set 
ourselves  to  do  what  we  could  find  do-able  in  our 
desert-island  state. 

The  lower  room  had  been  the  assayer's  office.     The 

floor  was  thick  with  debris  —  part  human,  from  the 

former  occupants;  part  natural,  sifted  in  by  mountain 

winds.     In  a  sea  of  red  dust  there  swam  or  floated 

sticks,  boards,  hay,  straw,  stones,  and  paper;  ancient 

newspapers,  above  all — for  the  newspaper,  especially 

when  torn,  soon  becomes  an  antiquity  —  and  bills  of 

the  Silverado  boarding-house,  some  dated  Silverado, 

some  Calistoga  Mine.     Here  is  one,  verbatim;  and  if 

any  one  can  calculate  the  scale  of  charges,  he  has  my 

envious  admiration. 

Calistoga  Mine,  May  3rd,  1875. 
John  Stanley 

To  S.  Chapman,  Cr. 
To  board  from  April  i  st,  to  April  30    .         .        .        $25  75 
"       "        "     May  I  St,  to  3rd   .        .        .        .  2  00 

27  75 
367 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Where  is  John  Stanley  mining  now  ?  Where  is  S. 
Chapman,  within  whose  hospitable  walls  we  were  to 
lodge  ?  The  date  was  but  five  years  old,  but  in  that 
time  the  world  had  changed  for  Silverado ;  like  Palmyra 
in  the  desert,  it  had  outlived  its  people  and  its  purpose ; 
we  camped,  like  Layard,  amid  ruins,  and  these  names 
spoke  to  us  of  pre-historic  time.  A  boot-jack,  a  pair 
of  boots,  a  dog-hutch,  and  these  bills  of  Mr.  Chapman's 
were  the  only  speaking  relics  that  we  disinterred  from 
all  that  vast  Silverado  rubbish-heap ;  but  what  would  I 
not  have  given  to  unearth  a  letter,  a  pocket-book,  a 
diary,  only  a  ledger,  or  a  roll  of  names,  to  take  me  back, 
in  a  more  personal  manner,  to  the  past  ?  It  pleases  me, 
besides,  to  fancy  that  Stanley  or  Chapman,  or  one  of 
their  companions,  may  light  upon  this  chronicle,  and 
be  struck  by  the  name,  and  read  some  news  of  their 
anterior  home,  coming,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  subsequent 
epoch  of  history  in  that  quarter  of  the  world. 

As  we  were  tumbling  the  mingled  rubbish  on  the 
floor,  kicking  it  with  our  feet,  and  groping  for  these 
written  evidences  of  the  past,  Sam,  with  a  somewhat 
whitened  face,  produced  a  paper  bag.  "What's  this.^" 
said  he.  It  contained  a  granulated  powder,  something 
the  colour  of  Gregory's  Mixture,  but  rosier  ;  and  as 
there  were  several  of  the  bags,  and  each  more  or  less 
broken,  the  powder  was  spread  widely  on  the  floor. 
Had  any  of  us  ever  seen  giant  powder  ?  No,  nobody 
had ;  and  instantly  there  grew  up  in  my  mind  a  shadowy 
belief,  verging  with  every  moment  nearer  to  certitude, 
that  I  had  somewhere  heard  somebody  describe  it  as 
just  such  a  powder  as  the  one  around  us.  I  have 
learnt  since  that  it  is  a  substance  not  unlike  tallow, 

368 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

and  is  made  up  in  rolls  for  all  the  world  like  tallow 
candles. 

Fanny,  to  add  to  our  happiness,  told  us  a  story  of  a 
gentleman  who  had  camped  one  night,  like  ourselves, 
by  a  deserted  mine.  He  was  a  handy,  thrifty  fellow, 
and  looked  right  and  left  for  plunder,  but  all  he  could  lay 
his  hands  on  was  a  can  of  oil.  After  dark  he  had  to  see 
to  the  horses  with  a  lantern;  and  not  to  miss  an  op- 
portunity, filled  up  his  lamp  from  the  oil  can.  Thus 
equipped,  he  set  forth  into  the  forest.  A  little  while  af- 
ter, his  friends  heard  a  loud  explosion ;  the  mountain 
echoes  bellowed,  and  then  all  was  still.  On  examina- 
tion, the  can  proved  to  contain  oil,  with  the  trifling  ad- 
dition of  nitro-glycerine;  but  no  research  disclosed  a 
trace  of  either  man  or  lantern. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  after  this  anecdote,  to  see  us 
sweeping  out  the  giant  powder.  It  seemed  never  to  be 
far  enough  away.  And,  after  all,  it  was  only  some  rock 
pounded  for  assay. 

So  much  for  the  lower  room.  We  scraped  some  of 
the  rougher  dirt  off  the  floor,  and  left  it.  That  was  our 
sitting-room  and  kitchen,  though  there  was  nothing  to  sit 
upon  but  the  table,  and  no  provision  for  a  fire  except  a 
hole  in  the  roof  of  the  room  above,  which  had  once  con- 
tained the  chimney  of  a  stove. 

To  that  upper  room  we  now  proceeded.  There  were 
the  eighteen  bunks  in  a  double  tier,  nine  on  either  hand, 
where  from  eighteen  to  thirty-six  miners  had  once 
snored  together  all  night  long,  John  Stanley,  perhaps, 
snoring  loudest.  There  was  the  roof,  with  a  hole  in  it 
through  which  the  sun  now  shot  an  arrow.  There  was 
the  floor,  in  much  the  same  state  as  the  one  below, 

369 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

though,  perhaps,  there  was  more  hay,  and  certainly 
there  was  the  added  ingredient  of  broken  glass,  the  man 
who  stole  the  window-frames  having  apparently  made 
a  miscarriage  with  this  one.  Without  a  broom,  without 
hay  or  bedding,  we  could  but  look  about  us  with  a  be- 
ginning of  despair.  The  one  bright  arrow  of  day,  in  that 
gaunt  and  shattered  barrack,  made  the  rest  look  dirtier 
and  darker,  and  the  sight  drove  us  at  last  into  the  open. 

Here,  also,  the  handiwork  of  man  lay  ruined :  but  the 
plants  were  all  alive  and  thriving;  the  view  below  was 
fresh  with  the  colours  of  nature;  and  we  had  exchanged 
a  dim,  human  garret  for  a  corner,  even  although  it  were 
untidy,  of  the  blue  hall  of  heaven.  Not  a  bird,  not  a 
beast,  not  a  reptile.  There  was  no  noise  in  that  part  of 
the  world,  save  when  we  passed  beside  the  staging,  and 
heard  the  water  musically  falling  in  the  shaft. 

We  wandered  to  and  fro.  We  searched  among  that 
drift  of  lumber — wood  and  iron,  nails  and  rails,  and 
sleepers  and  the  wheels  of  trucks.  We  gazed  up  the 
cleft  into  the  bosom  of  the  mountain.  We  sat  by  the 
margin  of  the  dump  and  saw,  far  below  us,  the  green 
treetops  standing  still  in  the  clear  air.  Beautiful  per- 
fumes, breaths  of  bay,  resin,  and  nutmeg,  came  to  us  more 
often  and  grew  sweeter  and  sharper  as  the  afternoon  de- 
clined.    But  still  there  was  no  word  of  Hanson. 

I  set  to  with  pick  and  shovel,  and  deepened  the  pool 
behind  the  shaft,  till  we  were  sure  of  sufficient  water 
for  the  morning;  and  by  the  time  I  had  finished,  the 
sun  had  begun  to  go  down  behind  the  mountain  shoul- 
der, the  platform  was  plunged  in  quiet  shadow,  and  a 
chill  descended  from  the  sky.  Night  began  early  in  our 
cleft.    Before  us,  over  the  margin  of  the  dump,  we  could 

370 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

see  the  sun  still  striking  aslant  into  the  wooded  nick  be- 
low, and  on  the  battlemented,  pine-bescattered  ridges 
on  the  farther  side. 

There  was  no  stove,  of  course,  and  no  hearth  in  our 
lodging,  so  we  betook  ourselves  to  the  blacksmith's 
forge  across  the  platform.  If  the  platform  be  taken  as 
a  stage,  and  the  out-curving  margin  of  the  dump  to 
represent  the  line  of  the  footlights,  then  our  house 
would  be  the  first  wing  on  the  actor's  left,  and  this 
blacksmith's  forge,  although  no  match  for  it  in  size,  the 
foremost  on  the  right.  It  was  a  low,  brown  cottage, 
planted  close  against  the  hill,  and  overhung  by  the  foli- 
age and  peeling  boughs  of  a  madrona  thicket.  Within 
it  was  full  of  dead  leaves  and  mountain  dust,  and  rub- 
bish from  the  mine.  But  we  soon  had  a  good  fire 
brightly  blazing,  and  sat  close  about  it  on  impromptu 
seats.  Chuchu,  the  slave  of  sofa-cushions,  whimpered 
for  a  softer  bed ;  but  the  rest  of  us  were  greatly  revived 
and  comforted  by  that  good  creature  —  fire,  which  gives 
us  warmth  and  light  and  companionable  sounds,  and 
colours  up  the  emptiest  building  with  better  than  fres- 
coes. For  a  while  it  was  even  pleasant  in  the  forge, 
with  the  blaze  in  the  midst,  and  a  look  over  our  shoul- 
ders on  the  woods  and  mountains  where  the  day  was 
dying  like  a  dolphin. 

It  was  between  seven  and  eight  before  Hanson  ar- 
rived, with  a  waggonful  of  our  effects  and  two  of  his 
wife's  relatives  to  lend  him  a  hand.  The  elder  showed 
surprising  strength.  He  would  pick  up  a  huge  pack- 
ing-case, full  of  books  of  all  things,  swing  it  on  his 
shoulder,  and  away  up  the  two  crazy  ladders  and  the 
breakneck  spout  of  rolling  mineral,  familiarly,  termed  a 

37» 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

path,  that  led  from  the  cart-track  to  our  house.  Even 
for  a  man  unburthened,  the  ascent  w^as  toilsome  and 
precarious;  but  Irvine  scaled  it  with  a  light  foot,  car- 
rying box  after  box,  as  the  hero  whisks  the  stage  child 
up  the  practicable  footway  beside  the  waterfall  of 
the  fifth  act.  With  so  strong  a  helper,  the  business 
was  speedily  transacted.  Soon  the  assayer's  office 
was  thronged  with  our  belongings,  piled  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, and  upside  down,  about  the  floor.  There  were 
our  boxes,  indeed,  but  my  wife  had  left  her  keys  in  Cal- 
istoga.  There  was  the  stove,  but,  alas !  our  carriers  had 
forgot  the  chimney,  and  lost  one  of  the  plates  along  the 
road.     The  Silverado  problem  was  scarce  solved. 

Rufe  himself  was  grave  and  good-natured  over  his 
share  of  blame ;  he  even,  if  I  remember  right,  expressed 
regret.  But  his  crew,  to  my  astonishment  and  anger, 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  and  laughed  aloud  at  our  dis- 
tress. They  thought  it  ''real  funny"  about  the  stove- 
pipe they  had  forgotten ;  ''real  funny  "  that  they  should 
have  lost  a  plate.  As  for  hay,  the  whole  party  refused 
to  bring  us  any  till  they  should  have  supped.  See  how 
late  they  were!  Never  had  there  been  such  a  job  as 
coming  up  that  grade!  Nor  often,  I  suspect,  such  a 
game  of  poker  as  that  before  they  started.  But  about 
nine,  as  a  particular  favour,  we  should  have  some  hay. 

So  they  took  their  departure,  leaving  me  still  staring, 
and  we  resigned  ourselves  to  wait  for  their  return.  The 
fire  in  the  forge  had  been  suffered  to  go  out,  and  we 
were  one  and  all  too  weary  to  kindle  another.  We 
dined,  or,  not  to  take  that  word  in  vain,  we  ate  after  a 
fashion,  in  the  nightmare  disorder  of  the  assayer's  office, 
perched  among  boxes.     A  single  candle  lighted  us.     It 

373 


THE  ACT  OF  SQUATTING 

could  scarce  be  called  a  house-warming;  for  there  was, 
of  course,  no  fire,  and  with  the  two  open  doors  and  the 
open  window  gaping  on  the  night,  like  breaches  in  a 
fortress,  it  began  to  grow  rapidly  chill.  Talk  ceased; 
nobody  moved  but  the  unhappy  Chuchu,  still  in  quest 
of  sofa-cushions,  who  tumbled  complainingly  among 
the  trunks.  It  required  a  certain  happiness  of  disposi- 
tion to  look  forward  hopefully,  from  so  dismal  a  begin- 
ning, across  the  brief  hours  of  night,  to  the  warm  shin- 
ing of  to-morrow's  sun. 

But  the  hay  arrived  at  last,  and  we  turned,  with  our  last 
spark  of  courage,  to  the  bedroom.  We  had  improved 
the  entrance,  but  it  was  still  a  kind  of  rope- walking ; 
and  it  would  have  been  droll  to  see  us  mounting,  one 
after  another,  by  candle-light,  under  the  open  stars. 

The  western  door — that  which  looked  up  the  canon, 
and  through  which  we  entered  by  our  bridge  of  flying 
plank  —  was  still  entire,  a  handsome,  panelled  door, 
the  most  finished  piece  of  carpentry  in  Silverado.  And 
the  two  lowest  bunks  next  to  this  we  roughly  filled 
with  hay  for  that  night's  use.  Through  the  opposite, 
or  eastern-looking  gable,  with  its  open  door  and  win- 
dow, a  faint,  diffused  starshine  came  into  the  room  like 
mist;  and  when  we  were  once  in  bed,  we  lay,  awaiting 
sleep,  in  a  haunted,  incomplete  obscurity.  At  first  the 
silence  of  the  night  was  utter.  Then  a  high  wind  be- 
gan in  the  distance  among  the  treetops,  and  for  hours 
continued  to  grow  higher.  It  seemed  to  me  much  such 
a  wind  as  we  had  found  on  our  visit;  yet  here  in  our 
open  chamber  we  were  fanned  only  by  gentle  and  re- 
freshing draughts,  so  deep  was  the  canon,  so  close  our 
house  was  planted  under  the  overhanging  rock. 

373 


THE  hunter's  family 

There  is  quite  a  large  race  or  class  of  people  in  Amer- 
ica, for  whom  we  scarcely  seem  to  have  a  parallel  in 
England.  Of  pure  white  blood,  they  are  unknown  or 
unrecognisable  in  towns;  inhabit  the  fringe  of  settle- 
ments and  the  deep,  quiet  places  of  the  country ;  rebel- 
lious to  all  labour,  and  pettily  thievish,  like  the  English 
gipsies ;  rustically  ignorant,  but  with  a  touch  of  wood- 
lore  and  the  dexterity  of  the  savage.  Whence  they  came 
is  a  moot  point.  At  the  time  of  the  war,  they  poured 
north  in  crowds  to  escape  conscription;  lived  during 
summer  on  fruits,  wild  animals,  and  petty  theft;  and  at 
the  approach  of  winter,  when  these  supplies  failed, 
built  great  fires  in  the  forest,  and  there  died  stoically  by 
starvation.  They  are  widely  scattered,  however,  and 
easily  recognised.  Loutish,  but  not  ill-looking,  they 
will  sit  all  day,  swinging  their  legs  on  a  field  fence,  the 
mind  seemingly  as  devoid  of  all  reflection  as  a  Suffolk 
peasant's,  careless  of  politics,  for  the  most  part  incapa- 
ble of  reading,  but  with  a  rebellious  vanity  and  a  strong 
sense  of  independence.  Hunting  is  their  most  con- 
genial business,  or,  if  the  occasion  offers,  a  little  ama- 
teur detection.  In  tracking  a  criminal,  following  a 
particular  horse  along  a  beaten  highway,  and  drawing 

374 


THE  HUNTER'S   FAMILY 

inductions  from  a  hair  or  a  footprint,  one  of  those  som- 
nolent, grinning  Hodges  will  suddenly  display  activity 
of  body  and  finesse  of  mind.  By  their  names  ye  may 
know  them,  the  women  figuring  as  Loveina,  Larsenia, 
Serena,  Leanna,  Orreana;  the  men  answering  to  Alvin, 
Alva,  or  Orion,  pronounced  Orrion,  with  the  accent  on 
the  first.  Whether  they  are  indeed  a  race,  or  whether 
this  is  the  form  of  degeneracy  common  to  all  back- 
woodsmen, they  are  at  least  known  by  a  generic  by- 
word, as  Poor  Whites  or  Low-downers. 

I  will  not  say  that  the  Hanson  family  was  Poor  White, 
because  the  name  savours  of  offence;  but  I  may  go  as 
far  as  this  —  they  were,  in  many  points,  not  unsimilar 
to  the  people  usually  so-called.  Rufe  himself  combined 
two  of  the  qualifications,  for  he  was  both  a  hunter  and 
an  amateur  detective.  It  was  he  who  pursued  Russel 
and  Dollar,  the  robbers  of  the  Lake  Port  stage,  and  cap- 
tured them  the  very  morning  after  the  exploit,  while 
they  were  still  sleeping  in  a  hayfield.  Russel,  a  drunken 
Scotch  carpenter,  was  even  an  acquaintance  of  his  own, 
and  he  expressed  much  grave  commiseration  for  his  fate. 
In  all  that  he  said  and  did,  Rufe  was  grave.  I  never 
saw  him  hurried.  When  he  spoke,  he  took  out  his  pipe 
with  ceremonial  deliberation,  looked  east  and  west,  and 
then,  in  quiet  tones  and  few  words,  stated  his  business 
or  told  his  story.  His  gait  was  to  match ;  it  would  never 
have  surprised  you  if,  at  any  step,  he  had  turned  round 
and  walked  away  again,  so  warily  and  slowly,  and 
with  so  much  seeming  hesitation  did  he  go  about.  He 
lay  long  in  bed  in  the  morning  —  rarely  indeed,  rose  be- 
fore noon ;  he  loved  all  games,  from  poker  to  clerical 
croquet;  and  in  the  Toll  House  croquet  ground  I  have 

375 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

seen  him  toiling  at  the  latter  with  the  devotion  of  a 
curate.  He  took  an  interest  in  education,  was  an  active 
member  of  the  local  school-board,  and  when  I  was  there, 
he  had  recently  lost  the  schoolhouse  key.  His  waggon 
was  broken,  but  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  to 
mend  it.  Like  all  truly  idle  people,  he  had  an  artistic 
eye.  He  chose  the  print  stuff  for  his  wife's  dresses, 
and  counselled  her  in  the  making  of  a  patchwork  quilt, 
always,  as  she  thought,  wrongly,  but  to  the  more  edu- 
cated eye,  always  with  bizarre  and  admirable  taste — 
the  taste  of  an  Indian.  With  all  this,  he  was  a  perfect, 
unoffending  gentleman  in  word  and  act.  Take  his  clay 
pipe  from  him,  and  he  was  fit  for  any  society  but  that 
of  fools.  Quiet  as  he  was,  there  burned  a  deep,  per- 
manent excitement  in  his  dark  blue  eyes;  and  when 
this  grave  man  smiled,  it  was  like  sunshine  in  a  shady 
place. 

Mrs.  Hanson  {nee,  if  you  please,  Lovelands)  was  more 
commonplace  than  her  lord.  She  was  a  comely  woman, 
too,  plump,  fair-coloured,  with  wonderful  white  teeth ; 
and  in  her  print  dresses  (chosen  by  Rufe)  and  with  a 
large  sun-bonnet  shading  her  valued  complexion,  made, 
I  assure  you,  a  very  agreeable  figure.  But  she  was  on 
the  surface,  what  there  was  of  her,  out-spoken  and  loud- 
spoken.  Her  noisy  laughter  had  none  of  the  charm  of 
one  of  Hanson's  rare,  slow-spreading  smiles ;  there  was 
no  reticence,  no  mystery,  no  manner  about  the  woman : 
she  was  a  first-class  dairymaid,  but  her  husband  was  an 
unknown  quantity  between  the  savage  and  the  noble- 
man. She  was  often  in  and  out  with  us,  merry,  and 
healthy,  and  fair;  he  came  far  seldomer  —  only,  indeed, 
when  there  was  business,  or  now  and  again,  to  pay  a 

376 


THE  HUNTER'S   FAMILY 

visit  of  ceremony,  brushed  up  for  the  occasion,  with  his 
wife  on  his  arm,  and  a  clean  clay  pipe  in  his  teeth. 
These  visits,  in  our  forest  state,  had  quite  the  air  of  an 
event,  and  turned  our  red  canon  into  a  salon. 

Such  was  the  pair  who  ruled  in  the  old  Silverado  Ho- 
tel, among  the  windy  trees,  on  the  mountain  shoulder 
overlooking  the  whole  length  of  Napa  Valley,  as  the 
man  aloft  looks  down  on  the  ship's  deck.  There  they 
kept  house,  with  sundry  horses  and  fowls,  and  a  family 
of  sons,  Daniel  Webster,  and  I  think  George  Washing- 
ton, among  the  number.  Nor  did  they  want  visitors. 
An  old  gentleman,  of  singular  stolidity,  and  called 
Breedlove  —  I  think  he  had  crossed  the  plains  in  the 
same  caravan  with  Rufe —  housed  with  them  for  awhile 
during  our  stay;  and  they  had  besides  a  permanent 
lodger,  in  the  form  of  Mrs.  Hanson's  brother,  Irvine 
Lovelands.  I  spell  Irvine  by  guess ;  for  I  could  get  no 
information  on  the  subject,  just  as  I  could  never  fmd 
out,  in  spite  of  many  inquiries,  whether  or  not  Rufe  was  a 
contraction  for  Rufus.  They  were  all  cheerfully  at  sea 
about  their  names  in  that  generation.  And  this  is  surely 
the  more  notable  where  the  names  are  all  so  strange,  and 
even  the  family  names  appear  to  have  been  coined.  At 
one  time,  at  least,  the  ancestors  of  all  these  Alvins  and 
Alvas,  Loveinas,  Lovelands,  and  Breedloves,  must  have 
taken  serious  council  and  found  a  certain  poetry  in  these 
denominations ;  that  must  have  been,  then,  their  form 
of  literature.  But  still  times  change ;  and  their  next  de- 
scendants, the  George  Washingtons  and  Daniel  Web- 
sters,  will  at  least  be  clear  upon  the  point.  And  anyway, 
and  however  his  name  should  be  spelt,  this  Irvine  Love- 
lands was  the  most  unmitigated  Caliban  I  ever  knew. 

377 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Our  very  first  morning  at  Silverado,  when  we  were 
full  of  business,  patching  up  doors  and  windows,  mak- 
ing beds  and  seats,  and  getting  our  rough  lodging  into 
shape,  Irvine  and  his  sister  made  their  appearance  to- 
gether, she  for  neighbourliness  and  general  curiosity; 
he,  because  he  was  working  for  me,  to  my  sorrow,  cut- 
ting firewood  at  I  forget  how  much  a  day.  The  way 
that  he  set  about  cutting  wood  was  characteristic.  We 
were  at  that  moment  patching  up  and  unpacking  in  the 
kitchen.  Down  he  sat  on  one  side,  and  down  sat  his 
sister  on  the  other.  Both  were  chewing  pine-tree  gum, 
and  he,  to  my  annoyance,  accompanied  that  simple 
pleasure  with  profuse  expectoration.  She  rattled  away, 
talking  up  hill  and  down  dale,  laughing,  tossing  her  head, 
showing  her  brilliant  teeth.  He  looked  on  in  silence, 
now  spitting  heavily  on  the  floor,  now  putting  his  head 
back  and  uttering  a  loud,  discordant,  joyless  laugh.  He 
had  a  tangle  of  shock  hair,  the  colour  of  wool ;  his  mouth 
was  a  grin ;  although  as  strong  as  a  horse,  he  looked 
neither  heavy  nor  yet  adroit,  only  leggy,  coltish,  and  in 
the  road.  But  it  was  plain  he  was  in  high  spirits, 
thoroughly  enjoying  his  visit;  and  he  laughed  frankly 
whenever  we  failed  to  accomplish  what  we  were  about. 
This  was  scarcely  helpful :  it  was  even,  to  amateur  car- 
penters, embarrassing;  but  it  lasted  until  we  knocked 
off  work  and  began  to  get  dinner.  Then  Mrs.  Hanson 
remembered  she  should  have  been  gone  an  hour  ago ;  and 
the  pair  retired,  and  the  lady's  laughter  died  away  among 
the  nutmegs  down  the  path.  That  was  Irvine's  first 
day's  work  in  my  employment  —  the  devil  take  him! 

The  next  morning  he  returned  and,  as  he  was  this 
time  alone,  he  bestowed  his  conversation  upon  us  with 

378 


THE  HUNTER'S   FAMILY 

great  liberality.  He  prided  himself  on  his  intelligence; 
asked  us  if  we  knew  the  school  ma'am.  He  didn't  think 
much  of  her,  anyway.  He  had  tried  her,  he  had.  He 
had  put  a  question  to  her.  If  a  tree  a  hundred  feet  high 
were  to  fall  a  foot  a  day,  how  long  would  it  take  to  fall 
right  down  }  She  had  not  been  able  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem. **  She  don't  know  nothing,"  he  opined.  He  told 
us  how  a  friend  of  his  kept  a  school  with  a  revolver, 
and  chuckled  mightily  over  that;  his  friend  could  teach 
school,  he  could.  All  the  time  he  kept  chewing  gum 
and  spitting.  He  would  stand  a  while  looking  down; 
and  then  he  would  toss  back  his  shock  of  hair,  and  laugh 
hoarsely,  and  spit,  and  bring  forward  a  new  subject.  A 
man,  he  told  us,  who  bore  a  grudge  against  him,  had 
poisoned  his  dog.  ''That  was  a  low  thing  for  a  man 
to  do  now,  wasn't  it }  It  wasn't  like  a  man,  that, 
nohow.  But  I  got  even  with  him:  I  pisoned  his  dog." 
His  clumsy  utterance,  his  rude  embarrassed  manner,  set 
a  fresh  value  on  the  stupidity  of  his  remarks.  I  do  not 
think  1  ever  appreciated  the  meaning  of  two  words  un- 
til I  knew  Irvine  —  the  verb,  loaf,  and  the  noun,  oaf ; 
between  them,  they  complete  his  portrait.  He  could 
lounge,  and  wriggle,  and  rub  himself  against  the  wall, 
and  grin,  and  be  more  in  everybody's  way  than  any 
other  two  people  that  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  Nothing 
that  he  did  became  him;  and  yet  you  were  conscious 
that  he  was  one  of  your  own  race,  that  his  mind  was 
cumbrously  at  work,  revolving  the  problem  of  existence 
like  a  quid  of  gum,  and  in  his  own  cloudy  manner  en- 
joying life,  and  passing  judgment  on  his  fellows.  Above 
all  things,  he  was  delighted  with  himself  You  would 
not  have  thought  it,  from  his  uneasy  manners  and  trou- 

379 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

bled,  Struggling  utterance ;  but  he  loved  himself  to  the 
marrow,  and  w^as  happy  and  proud  like  a  peacock  on 
a  rail. 

His  self-esteem  was,  indeed,  the  one  joint  in  his  har- 
ness. He  could  be  got  to  work,  and  even  kept  at  work, 
by  flattery.  As  long  as  my  wife  stood  over  him,  cry- 
ing out  how  strong  he  was,  so  long  exactly  he  would 
stick  to  the  matter  in  hand ;  and  the  moment  she  turned 
her  back,  or  ceased  to  praise  him,  he  would  stop.  His 
physical  strength  was  wonderful ;  and  to  have  a  woman 
stand  by  and  admire  his  achievements,  warmed  his 
heart  like  sunshine.  Yet  he  was  as  cowardly  as  he 
was  powerful,  and  felt  no  shame  in  owning  to  the 
weakness.  Something  was  once  wanted  from  the  crazy 
platform  over  the  shaft,  and  he  at  once  refused  to  ven- 
ture there —  "did  not  like,"  as  he  said,  "foolin'  round 
them  kind  o'  places,"  and  let  my  wife  go  instead  of 
him,  looking  on  with  a  grin.  Vanity,  where  it  rules, 
is  usually  more  heroic:  but  Irvine  steadily  approved 
himself,  and  expected  others  to  approve  him;  rather 
looked  down  upon  my  wife,  and  decidedly  expected 
her  to  look  up  to  him,  on  the  strength  of  his  superior 
prudence. 

Yet  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole  matter  was  per- 
haps this,  that  Irvine  was  as  beautiful  as  a  statue.  His 
features  were,  in  themselves,  perfect;  it  was  only  his 
cloudy,  uncouth,  and  coarse  expression  that  disfigured 
them.  So  much  strength  residing  in  so  spare  a  frame 
was  proof  sufficient  of  the  accuracy  of  his  shape.  He 
must  have  been  built  somewhat  after  the  pattern  of  Jack 
Sheppard ;  but  the  famous  housebreaker,  we  may  be  cer- 
tain, was  no  lout.   It  was  by  the  extraordinary  powers  of 

380 


THE  HUNTER'S  FAMILY 

his  mind  no  less  than  by  the  vigour  of  his  body,  that  he 
broke  his  strong  prison  with  such  imperfect  implements, 
turning  the  very  obstacles  to  service.  Irvine,  in  the 
same  case,  would  have  sat  down  and  spat,  and  grum- 
bled curses.  He  had  the  soul  of  a  fat  sheep,  but,  re- 
garded as  an  artist's  model,  the  exterior  of  a  Greek  God. 
It  was  a  cruel  thought  to  persons  less  favoured  in  their 
birth,  that  this  creature,  endowed — to  use  the  language 
of  theatres  —  with  extraordinary  *' means,"  should  so 
manage  to  misemploy  them  that  he  looked  ugly  and 
almost  deformed.  It  was  only  by  an  effort  of  abstrac- 
tion, and  after  many  days,  that  you  discovered  what  he 
was. 

By  playing  on  the  oaf's  conceit,  and  standing  closely 
over  him,  we  got  a  path  made  round  the  corner  of  the 
dump  to  our  door,  so  that  we  could  come  and  go  with 
decent  ease ;  and  he  even  enjoyed  the  work,  for  in  that 
there  were  boulders  to  be  plucked  up  bodily,  bushes  to 
be  uprooted,  and  other  occasions  for  athletic  display: 
but  cutting  wood  was  a  different  matter.  Anybody 
could  cut  wood;  and,  besides,  my  wife  was  tired  of 
supervising  him,  and  had  other  things  to  attend  to. 
And,  in  short,  days  went  by,  and  Irvine  came  daily, 
and  talked  and  lounged  and  spat;  but  the  firewood  re- 
mained intact  as  sleepers  on  the  platform  or  growing 
trees  upon  the  mountain-side.  Irvine,  as  a  woodcutter, 
we  could  tolerate;  but  Irvine  as  a  friend  of  the  family, 
at  so  much  a  day,  was  too  bald  an  imposition,  and  at 
length,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  our 
connection,  I  explained  to  him,  as  clearly  as  I  could,  the 
light  in  which  I  had  grown  to  regard  his  presence.  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  I  could  not  continue  to  give 

381 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

him  a  salary  for  spitting  on  the  floor;  and  this  expres- 
sion, which  came  after  a  good  many  others,  at  last 
penetrated  his  obdurate  wits.  He  rose  at  once,  and 
said  if  that  was  the  way  he  was  going  to  be  spoke  to, 
he  reckoned  he  would  quit.  And,  no  one  interposing, 
he  departed. 

So  far,  so  good.  But  we  had  no  firewood.  The  next 
afternoon,  I  strolled  down  to  Rufe's  and  consulted  him 
on  the  subject.  It  was  a  very  droll  interview,  in  the 
large,  bare  north  room  of  the  Silverado  Hotel,  Mrs.  Han- 
son's patchwork  on  a  frame,  and  Rufe,  and  his  wife, 
and  I,  and  the  oaf  himself,  all  more  or  less  embarrassed. 
Rufe  announced  there  was  nobody  in  the  neighbour- 
hood but  Irvine  who  could  do  a  day's  work  for  any- 
body. Irvine,  thereupon,  refused  to  have  any  more  to 
do  with  my  service;  he  "  wouldn't  work  no  more  for  a 
man  as  had  spoke  to  him  's  I  had  done."  I  found  my- 
self on  the  point  of  the  last  humiliation  —  driven  to  be- 
seech the  creature  whom  I  had  just  dismissed  with 
insult:  but  I  took  the  high  hand  in  despair,  said  there 
must  be  no  talk  of  Irvine  coming  back  unless  matters 
were  to  be  differently  managed;  that  I  would  rather 
chop  firewood  for  myself  than  be  fooled;  and,  in  short, 
the  Hansons  being  eager  for  the  lad's  hire,  I  so  imposed 
upon  them  with  merely  affected  resolution,  that  they 
ended  by  begging  me  to  re-employ  him  again,  on  a 
solemn  promise  that  he  should  be  more  industrious. 
The  promise,  I  am  bound  to  say,  was  kept.  We  soon 
had  a  fine  pile  of  firewood  at  our  door;  and  if  Caliban 
gave  me  the  cold  shoulder  and  spared  me  his  conversa- 
tion, I  thought  none  the  worse  of  him  for  that,  nor  did 
I  find  my  days  much  longer  for  the  deprivation. 

382 


THE   HUNTER'S   FAMILY 

The  leading  spirit  of  the  family  was,  I  am  inclined  to 
fancy,  Mrs.  Hanson.  Her  social  brilliancy  somewhat 
dazzled  the  others,  and  she  had  more  of  the  small  change 
of  sense.  It  was  she  who  faced  Kelmar,  for  instance ; 
and  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  alone,  Kelmar  would  have 
had  no  rule  within  her  doors.  Rufe,  to  be  sure,  had  a  fine, 
sober,  open-air  attitude  of  mind,  seeing  the  world  with- 
out exaggeration  —  perhaps,  we  may  even  say,  without 
enough ;  for  he  lacked,  along  with  the  others,  that  com- 
mercial idealism  which  puts  so  high  a  value  on  time  and 
money.  Sanity  itself  is  a  kind  of  convention.  Perhaps 
Rufe  was  wrong;  but,  looking  on  life  plainly,  he  was 
unable  to  perceive  that  croquet  or  poker  were  in  any 
way  less  important  than,  for  instance,  mending  his 
waggon.  Even  his  own  profession,  hunting,  was  dear 
to  him  mainly  as  a  sort  of  play;  even  that  he  would 
have  neglected,  had  it  not  appealed  to  his  imagination. 
His  hunting-suit,  for  instance,  had  cost  I  should  be  afraid 
to  say  how  many  bucks  —  the  currency  in  which  he 
paid  his  way:  it  was  all  befringed,  after  the  Indian 
fashion,  and  it  was  dear  to  his  heart.  The  pictorial  side 
of  his  daily  business  was  never  forgotten.  He  was  even 
anxious  to  stand  for  his  picture  in  those  buckskin  hunt- 
ing clothes ;  and  I  remember  how  he  once  warmed  al- 
most into  enthusiasm,  his  dark  blue  eyes  growing 
perceptibly  larger,  as  he  planned  the  composition  in 
which  he  should  appear,  *' with  the  horns  of  some  real 
big  bucks,  and  dogs,  and  a  camp  on  a  crick"  (creek, 
stream). 

There  was  no  trace  in  Irvine  of  this  woodland  poetry. 
He  did  not  care  for  hunting,  nor  yet  for  buckskin  suits. 
He  had  never  observed  scenery.     The  world,  as  it  ap- 

3Sy 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

peared  to  him,  was  almost  obliterated  by  his  own  great 
grinning  figure  in  the  foreground:  Caliban  Malvolio. 
And  it  seems  to  me  as  if,  in  the  persons  of  these  broth- 
ers-in-law, we  had  the  two  sides  of  rusticity  fairly  well 
represented :  the  hunter  living  really  in  nature ;  the  clod- 
hopper living  merely  out  of  society :  the  one  bent  up  in 
every  corporal  agent  to  capacity  in  one  pursuit,  doing  at 
least  one  thing  keenly  and  thoughtfully,  and  thoroughly 
alive  to  all  that  touches  it ;  the  other  in  the  inert  and 
bestial  state,  walking  in  a  faint  dream,  and  taking  so  dim 
an  impression  of  the  myriad  sides  of  life  that  he  is  truly 
conscious  of  nothing  but  himself  It  is  only  in  the  fast- 
nesses of  nature,  forests,  mountains,  and  the  back  of 
man's  beyond,  that  a  creature  endowed  with  five  senses 
can  grow  up  into  the  perfection  of  this  crass  and  earthy 
vanity.  In  towns  or  the  busier  country  sides,  he  is 
roughly  reminded  of  other  men's  existence;  and  if  he 
learns  no  more,  he  learns  at  least  to  fear  contempt.  But 
Irvine  had  come  scatheless  through  life,  conscious  only 
of  himself,  of  his  great  strength  and  intelligence ;  and 
in  the  silence  of  the  universe,  to  which  he  did  not  lis- 
ten, dwelling  with  delight  on  the  sound  of  his  own 
thoughts. 


384 


THE  SEA  FOGS 

A  CHANGE  in  the  colour  of  the  light  usually  called  me 
in  the  morning.  By  a  certain  hour,  the  long,  vertical 
chinks  in  our  western  gable,  where  the  boards  had 
shrunk  and  separated,  flashed  suddenly  into  my  eyes  as 
stripes  of  dazzling  blue,  at  once  so  dark  and  splendid 
that  I  used  to  marvel  how  the  qualities  could  be  com- 
bined. At  an  earlier  hour,  the  heavens  in  that  quarter 
were  still  quietly  coloured,  but  the  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain which  shuts  in  the  canon  already  glowed  with 
sunlight  in  a  wonderful  compound  of  gold  and  rose  and 
green ;  and  this  too  would  kindle,  although  more  mildly 
and  with  rainbow  tints,  the  fissures  of  our  crazy  gable. 
If  I  were  sleeping  heavily,  it  was  the  bold  blue  that 
struck  me  awake ;  if  more  lightly,  then  I  would  come  to 
myself  in  that  earlier  and  fairier  light. 

One  Sunday  morning,  about  five,  the  first  brightness 
called  me.  I  rose  and  turned  to  the  east,  not  for  my  de- 
votions, but  for  air.  The  night  had  been  very  still.  The 
little  private  gale  that  blew  every  evening  in  our  canon, 
for  ten  minutes  or  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  had 
swiftly  blown  itself  out;  in  the  hours  that  followed  not 
a  sigh  of  wind  had  shaken  the  treetops ;  and  our  barrack, 
for  all  its  breaches,  was  less  fresh  that  morning  than  of 

385 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

wont.  But  I  had  no  sooner  reached  the  window  than  I 
forgot  all  else  in  the  sight  that  met  my  eyes,  and  I  made 
but  two  bounds  into  my  clothes,  and  down  the  crazy 
plank  to  the  platform. 

The  sun  was  still  concealed  below  the  opposite  hill- 
tops, though  it  was  shining  already,  not  twenty  feet 
above  my  head,  on  our  own  mountain  slope.  But  the 
scene,  beyond  a  few  near  features,  was  entirely  changed. 
Napa  valley  was  gone;  gone  were  all  the  lower  slopes 
and  woody  foothills  of  the  range;  and  in  their  place, 
not  a  thousand  feet  below  me,  rolled  a  great  level  ocean. 
It  was  as  though  1  had  gone  to  bed  the  night  before, 
safe  in  a  nook  of  inland  mountains,  and  had  awakened  in 
a  bay  upon  the  coast.  I  had  seen  these  inundations 
from  below ;  at  Calistoga  1  had  risen  and  gone  abroad^ 
in  the  early  morning,  coughing  and  sneezing,  under 
fathoms  on  fathoms  of  gray  sea  vapour,  like  a  cloudy 
sky  —  a  dull  sight  for  the  artist,  and  a  painful  experience 
for  the  invalid.  But  to  sit  aloft  one's  self  in  the  pure 
air  and  under  the  unclouded  dome  of  heaven,  and  thus 
look  down  on  the  submergence  of  the  valley,  was 
strangely  different  and  even  delightful  to  the  eyes.  Far 
away  were  hilltops  like  little  islands.  Nearer,  a  smoky 
surf  beat  about  the  foot  of  precipices  and  poured  into  all 
the  coves  of  these  rough  mountains.  The  colour  of  that 
fog  ocean  was  a  thing  never  to  be  forgotten.  For  an 
instant,  among  the  Hebrides  and  just  about  sundown,  I 
have  seen  something  like  it  on  the  sea  itself  But  the 
white  was  not  so  opaline;  nor  was  there,  what  surpris- 
ingly increased  the  effect,  that  breathless,  crystal  still- 
ness over  all.  Even  in  its  gentlest  moods  the  salt  sea 
travails,  moaning  among  the  weeds  or  lisping  on  the 

386 


THE  SEA   FOGS 

sand ;  but  that  vast  fog  ocean  lay  in  a  trance  of  silence, 
nor  did  the  sweet  air  of  the  morning  tremble  with  a 
sound. 

As  I  continued  to  sit  upon  the  dump,  I  began  to  ob- 
serve that  this  sea  was  not  so  level  as  at  first  sight  it 
appeared  to  be.  Away  in  the  extreme  south,  a  little  hill 
of  fog  arose  against  the  sky  above  the  general  surface, 
and  as  it  had  already  caught  the  sun,  it  shone  on  the 
horizon  like  the  topsails  of  some  giant  ship.  There 
were  huge  waves,  stationary,  as  it  seemed,  like  waves 
in  a  frozen  sea;  and  yet,  as  I  looked  again,  I  was  not 
sure  but  they  were  moving  after  all,  with  a  slow  and 
august  advance.  And  while  I  was  yet  doubting,  a 
promontory  of  the  hills  some  four  or  five  miles  away, 
conspicuous  by  a  bouquet  of  tall  pines,  was  in  a  single 
instant  overtaken  and  swallowed  up.  It  reappeared  in 
a  little,  with  its  pines,  but  this  time  as  an  islet,  and  only 
to  be  swallowed  up  once  more  and  then  for  good.  This 
set  me  looking  nearer,  and  I  saw  that  in  every  cove 
along  the  line  of  mountains  the  fog  was  being  piled  in 
higher  and  higher,  as  though  by  some  wind  that  was 
inaudible  to  me.  I  could  trace  its  progress,  one  pine 
tree  first  growing  hazy  and  then  disappearing  after 
another;  although  sometimes  there  was  none  of  this 
fore-running  haze,  but  the  whole  opaque  white  ocean 
gave  a  start  and  swallowed  a  piece  of  mountain  at  a 
gulp.  It  was  to  flee  these  poisonous  fogs  that  I  had 
left  the  seaboard,  and  climbed  so  high  among  the  moun- 
tains. And  now,  behold,  here  came  the  fog  to  besiege 
me  in  my  chosen  altitudes,  and  yet  came  so  beautifully 
that  my  first  thought  was  of  welcome. 

The  sun  had  now  gotten  much  higher,  and  through 

387 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

all  the  gaps  of  the  hills  it  cast  long  bars  of  gold  across 
that  white  ocean.  An  eagle^  or  some  other  very  great 
bird  of  the  mountain,  came  w^heeling  over  the  nearer 
pine-tops,  and  hung,  poised  and  something  sideways, 
as  if  to  look  abroad  on  that  unwonted  desolation,  spy- 
ing, perhaps  with  terror,  for  the  eyries  of  her  comrades. 
Then,  with  a  long  cry,  she  disappeared  again  towards 
Lake  County  and  the  clearer  air.  At  length  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  the  flood  were  beginning  to  subside.  The  old 
landmarks,  by  whose  disappearance  I  had  measured  its 
advance,  here  a  crag,  there  a  brave  pine  tree,  now  be- 
gan, in  the  inverse  order,  to  make  their  reappearance 
into  daylight.  I  judged  all  danger  of  the  fog  was  over. 
This  was  not  Noah's  flood ;  it  was  but  a  morning  spring, 
and  would  now  drift  out  seaward  whence  it  came.  So, 
mightily  relieved,  and  a  good  deal  exhilarated  by  the 
sight,  I  went  into  the  house  to  light  the  fire. 

I  suppose  it  was  nearly  seven  when  I  once  more 
mounted  the  platform  to  look  abroad.  The  fog  ocean 
had  swelled  up  enormously  since  last  I  saw  it;  and  a 
few  hundred  feet  below  me,  in  the  deep  gap  where  the 
Toll  House  stands  and  the  road  runs  through  into  Lake 
County,  it  had  already  topped  the  slope,  and  was  pour- 
ing over  and  down  the  other  side  like  driving  smoke. 
The  wind  had  climbed  along  with  it;  and  though  I  was 
still  in  calm  air,  I  could  see  the  trees  tossing  below  me, 
and  their  long,  strident  sighing  mounted  to  me  where 
I  stood. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  fog  had  surmounted  all  the 
ridge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gap,  though  a  shoulder 
of  the  mountain  still  warded  it  out  of  our  canon.  Napa 
valley  and  its  bounding  hills  were  now  utterly  blotted 

388 


THE  SEA  FOGS 

out  The  fog,  sunny  white  in  the  sunshine,  was  pour- 
ing over  into  Lake  County  in  a  huge,  ragged  cataract, 
tossing  treetops  appearing  and  disappearing  in  the  spray. 
The  air  struck  with  a  little  chill,  and  set  me  coughing. 
It  smelt  strong  of  the  fog,  like  the  smell  of  a  washing- 
house,  but  with  a  shrewd  tang  of  the  sea  salt. 

Had  it  not  been  for  two  things  —  the  sheltering  spur 
which  answered  as  a  dyke,  and  the  great  valley  on  the 
other  side  which  rapidly  engulfed  whatever  mounted  — 
our  own  little  platform  in  the  canon  must  have  been 
already  buried  a  hundred  feet  in  salt  and  poisonous  air. 
As  it  was,  the  interest  of  the  scene  entirely  occupied 
our  minds.  We  were  set  just  out  of  the  wind,  and  but 
just  above  the  fog;  we  could  listen  to  the  voice  of  the 
one  as  to  music  on  the  stage ;  we  could  plunge  our  eyes 
down  into  the  other,  as  into  some  flowing  stream  from 
over  the  parapet  of  a  bridge ;  thus  we  looked  on  upon 
a  strange,  impetuous,  silent,  shifting  exhibition  of  the 
powers  of  nature,  and  saw  the  familiar  landscape  chang- 
ing from  moment  to  moment  like  figures  in  a  dream. 

The  imagination  loves  to  trifle  with  what  is  not.  Had 
this  been  indeed  the  deluge,  I  should  have  felt  more 
strongly,  but  the  emotion  would  have  been  similar  in 
kind.  I  played  with  the  idea,  as  the  child  flees  in  de- 
lighted terror  from  the  creations  of  his  fancy.  The  look 
of  the  thing  helped  me.  And  when  at  last  I  began  to 
flee  up  the  mountain,  it  was  indeed  partly  to  escape 
from  the  raw  air  that  kept  me  coughing,  but  it  was  also 
part  in  play. 

As  I  ascended  the  mountain-side,  I  came  once  more 
to  overlook  the  upper  surface  of  the  fog ;  but  it  wore  a 
different  appearance  from  what  I  had  beheld  at  daybreak. 

389 


THE  SILVERADO  SQyATTERS 

For,  first,  the  sun  now  fell  on  it  from  high  overhead, 
and  its  surface  shone  and  undulated  like  a  great  nor'land 
moor  country,  sheeted  with  untrodden  morning  snow. 
And  next  the  new  level  must  have  been  a  thousand  or 
fifteen  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  old,  so  that  only 
five  or  six  points  of  all  the  broken  country  below  me, 
still  stood  out.  Napa  valley  was  now  one  with  Sonoma 
on  the  west.  On  the  hither  side,  only  a  thin  scattered 
fringe  of  bluffs  was  unsubmerged ;  and  through  all  the 
gaps  the  fog  was  pouring  over,  like  an  ocean,  into  the 
blue  clear  sunny  country  on  the  east.  There  it  was 
soon  lost ;  for  it  fell  instantly  into  the  bottom  of  the  val- 
leys, following  the  water-shed ;  and  the  hilltops  in  that 
quarter  were  still  clear  cut  upon  the  eastern  sky. 

Through  the  Toll  House  gap  and  over  the  near  ridges 
on  the  other  side,  the  deluge  was  immense.  A  spray 
of  thin  vapour  was  thrown  high  above  it,  rising  and 
falling,  and  blown  into  fantastic  shapes.  The  speed  of 
its  course  was  like  a  mountain  torrent.  Here  and  there 
a  few  treetops  were  discovered  and  then  whelmed  again ; 
and  for  one  second,  the  bough  of  a  dead  pine  beckoned 
out  of  the  spray  like  the  arm  of  a  drowning  man.  But 
still  the  imagination  was  dissatisfied,  still  the  ear  waited 
for  something  more.  Had  this  indeed  been  water  (as  it 
seemed  so,  to  the  eye),  with  what  a  plunge  of  rever- 
berating thunder  would  it  have  rolled  upon  its  course, 
disembowelling  mountains  and  deracinating  pines !  And 
yet  water  it  was,  and  sea- water  at  that  —  true  Pacific 
billows,  only  somewhat  rarefied,  rolling  in  mid  air 
among  the  hilltops. 

I  climbed  still  higher,  among  the  red  rattling  gravel 
and  dwarf  underwood  of  Mount  Saint  Helena,  until  I 

590 


THE  SEA   FOGS 

could  look  right  down  upon  Silverado,  and  admire  the 
favoured  nook  in  which  it  lay.  The  sunny  plain  of  fog 
was  several  hundred  feet  higher;  behind  the  protecting 
spur  a  gigantic  accumulation  of  cottony  vapour  threat- 
ened, with  every  second,  to  blow  over  and  submerge  our 
homestead ;  but  the  vortex  setting  past  the  Toll  House 
was  too  strong;  and  there  lay  our  little  platform,  in  the 
arms  of  the  deluge,  but  still  enjoying  its  unbroken  sun- 
shine. About  eleven,  however,  thin  spray  came  flying 
over  the  friendly  buttress,  and  I  began  to  think  the  fog 
had  hunted  out  its  Jonah  after  all.  But  it  was  the  last 
effort.  The  wind  veered  while  we  were  at  dinner,  and 
began  to  blow  squally  from  the  mountain  summit;  and 
by  half-past  one,  all  that  world  of  sea-fogs  was  utterly 
routed  and  flying  here  and  there  into  the  south  in  little 
rags  of  cloud.  And  instead  of  a  lone  sea-beach,  we 
found  ourselves  once  more  inhabiting  a  high  mountain- 
side, with  the  clear  green  country  far  below  us,  and  the 
light  smoke  of  Calistoga  blowing  in  the  air. 

This  was  the  great  Russian  campaign  for  that  season. 
Now  and  then,  in  the  early  morning,  a  little  white  lake- 
let of  fog  would  be  seen  far  down  in  Napa  Valley ;  but 
the  heights  were  not  again  assailed,  nor  was  the  sur- 
rounding world  again  shut  off  from  Silverado. 


391 


THE  TOLL  HOUSE 

The  Toll  House,  standing  alone  by  the  wayside  under 
nodding  pines,  with  its  streamlet  and  water-tank;  its 
backwoods,  toll-bar,  and  well  trodden  croquet  ground ; 
the  ostler  standing  by  the  stable  door,  chewing  a  straw ; 
a  glimpse  of  the  Chinese  cook  in  the  back  parts ;  and 
Mr.  Hoddy  in  the  bar,  gravely  alert  and  serviceable,  and 
equally  anxious  to  lend  or  borrow  books; — dozed  all 
day  in  the  dusty  sunshine,  more  than  half  asleep.  There 
were  no  neighbours,  except  the  Hansons  up  the  hill. 
The  traffic  on  the  road  was  infinitesimal;  only,  at  rare 
intervals,  a  couple  in  a  waggon,  or  a  dusty  farmer  on  a 
spring-board,  toiling  over  "the  grade"  to  that  metro- 
politan hamlet,  Calistoga;  and,  at  the  fixed  hours,  the 
passage  of  the  stages. 

The  nearest  building  was  the  schoolhouse,  down  the 
road ;  and  the  school-ma'am  boarded  at  the  Toll  House, 
walking  thence  in  the  morning  to  the  little  brown  shanty, 
where  she  taught  the  young  ones  of  the  district,  and  re- 
turning thither  pretty  weary  in  the  afternoon.  She  had 
chosen  this  outlying  situation,  I  understood,  for  her 
health.  Mr.  Corwin  was  consumptive;  so  was  Rufe; 
so  was  Mr.  Jennings,  the  engineer.  In  short,  the  place 
was  a  kind  of  small  Davos :  consumptive  folk  consort- 

392 


THE  TOLL  HOUSE 

ing  on  a  hilltop  in  the  most  unbroken  idleness.  Jen- 
nings never  did  anything  that  I  could  see,  except  now 
and  then  to  fish,  and  generally  to  sit  about  in  the  bar 
and  the  verandah,  waiting  for  something  to  happen. 
Corwin  and  Rufe  did  as  little  as  possible;  and  if  the 
school-ma'am,  poor  lady,  had  to  work  pretty  hard  all 
morning,  she  subsided  when  it  was  over  into  much  the 
same  dazed  beatitude  as  all  the  rest. 

Her  special  corner  was  the  parlour  —  a  very  genteel 
room,  with  Bible  prints,  a  crayon  portrait  of  Mrs.  Cor- 
win in  the  height  of  fashion,  a  few  years  ago,  another 
of  her  son  (Mr.  Corwin  was  not  represented),  a  mirror, 
and  a  selection  of  dried  grasses.  A  large  book  was  laid 
religiously  on  the  table — ''From  Palace  to  Hovel,"  I 
believe,  its  name  —  full  of  the  raciest  experiences  in 
England.  The  author  had  mingled  freely  with  all 
classes,  the  nobility  particularly  meeting  him  with  open 
arms ;  and  I  must  say  that  traveller  had  ill  requited  his 
reception.  His  book,  in  short,  was  a  capital  instance 
of  the  Penny  Messalina  school  of  literature;  and  there 
arose  from  it,  in  that  cool  parlour,  in  that  silent,  way- 
side, mountain  inn,  a  rank  atmosphere  of  gold  and 
blood  and  "Jenkins,"  and  the  ''Mysteries  of  London," 
and  sickening,  inverted  snobbery,  fit  to  knock  you 
down.  The  mention  of  this  book  reminds  me  of  an- 
other and  far  racier  picture  of  our  island  life.  The  lat- 
ter parts  of  Rocambole  are  surely  too  sparingly  con- 
sulted in  the  country  which  they  celebrate.  No  man's 
education  can  be  said  to  be  complete,  nor  can  he  pro- 
nounce the  world  yet  emptied  of  enjoyment,  till  he  has 
made  the  acquaintance  of  "the  Reverend  Patterson, 
director  of  the  Evangelical  Society."     To  follow  the 

3P3 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

evolutions  of  that  reverend  gentleman,  who  goes 
through  scenes  in  which  even  Mr.  Duffield  would  hesi- 
tate to  place  a  bishop,  is  to  rise  to  new  ideas.  But, 
alas!  there  was  no  Patterson  about  the  Toll  House. 
Only,  alongside  of  "From  Palace  to  Hovel,"  a  sixpenny 
'*Ouida"  figured.  So  literature,  you  see,  was  not  un- 
represented. 

The  school-ma'am  had  friends  to  stay  with  her,  other 
school-ma'ams  enjoying  their  holidays,  quite  a  bevy  of 
damsels.  They  seemed  never  to  go  out,  or  not  beyond 
the  verandah,  but  sat  close  in  the  little  parlour,  quietly 
talking  or  listening  to  the  wind  among  the  trees.  Sleep 
dwelt  in  the  Toll  House,  like  a  fixture:  summer  sleep, 
shallow,  soft,  and  dreamless.  A  cuckoo-clock,  a  great 
rarity  in  such  a  place,  hooted  at  intervals  about  the 
echoing  house ;  and  Mr.  Jennings  would  open  his  eyes 
for  a  moment  in  the  bar,  and  turn  the  leaf  of  a  news- 
paper, and  the  resting  school-ma'ams  in  the  parlour 
would  be  recalled  to  the  consciousness  of  their  inaction. 
Busy  Mrs.  Corwin  and  her  busy  Chinaman  might  be 
heard  indeed,  in  the  penetralia,  pounding  dough  or  rat- 
tling dishes;  or  perhaps  Rufe  had  called  up  some  of  the 
sleepers  for  a  game  of  croquet,  and  the  hollow  strokes 
of  the  mallet  sounded  far  away  among  the  woods :  but 
with  these  exceptions,  it  was  sleep  and  sunshine  and 
dust,  and  the  wind  in  the  pine  trees,  all  day  long. 

A  little  before  stage  time,  that  castle  of  indolence 
awoke.  The  ostler  threw  his  straw  away  and  set  to 
his  preparations.  Mr.  Jennings  rubbed  his  eyes;  happy 
Mr.  Jennings,  the  something  he  had  been  waiting  for 
all  day  about  to  happen  at  last !  The  boarders  gathered 
in  the  verandah,  silently  giving  ear,  and  gazing  down  the 

394 


THE  TOLL  HOUSE 

road  with  shaded  eyes.  And  as  yet  there  was  no  sign 
for  the  senses,  not  a  sound,  not  a  tremor  of  the  moun- 
tain road.  The  birds,  to  whom  the  secret  of  the  hoot- 
ing cuckoo  is  unknown,  must  have  set  down  to  instinct 
this  premonitory  bustle. 

And  then  the  first  of  the  two  stages  swooped  upon  the 
Toll  House  with  a  roar  and  in  a  cloud  of  dust;  and  the 
shock  had  not  yet  time  to  subside,  before  the  second  was 
abreast  of  it.  Huge  concerns  they  were,  well-horsed 
and  loaded,  the  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  the  women 
swathed  in  veils,  the  long  whip  cracking  like  a  pistol; 
and  as  they  charged  upon  that  slumbering  hostelry,  each 
shepherding  a  dust  storm,  the  dead  place  blossomed 
into  life  and  talk  and  clatter.  This  the  Toll  House  ?  — 
with  its  city  throng,  its  jostling  shoulders,  its  infinity 
of  instant  business  in  the  bar  ?  The  mind  would  not 
receive  it!  The  heartfelt  bustle  of  that  hour  is  hardly 
credible ;  the  thrill  of  the  great  shower  of  letters  from 
the  post-bag,  the  childish  hope  and  interest  with  which 
one  gazed  in  all  these  strangers'  eyes.  They  paused 
there  but  to  pass:  the  blue-clad  China-boy,  the  San 
Francisco  magnate,  the  mystery  in  the  dust  coat,  the 
secret  memoirs  in  tweed,  the  ogling,  well-shod  lady 
with  her  troop  of  girls ;  they  did  but  flash  and  go ;  they 
were  hull-down  for  us  behind  life's  ocean,  and  we  but 
hailed  their  topsails  on  the  line.  Yet,  out  of  our  great 
solitude  of  four  and  twenty  mountain  hours,  we  thrilled 
to  their  momentary  presence ;  gauged  and  divined  them, 
loved  and  hated ;  and  stood  light-headed  in  that  storm 
of  human  electricity.  Yes,  like  Piccadilly  Circus,  this 
is  also  one  of  life's  crossing-places.  Here  I  beheld  one 
man,  already  famous  or  infamous,  a  centre  of  pistol- 

395 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

shots :  and  another  who,  if  not  yet  known  to  rumour, 
will  fill  a  column  of  the  Sunday  paper  when  he  comes 
to  hang  —  a  burly,  thick-set,  powerful  Chinese  desper- 
ado, six  long  bristles  upon  either  lip ;  redolent  of  whis- 
key, playing  cards,  and  pistols ;  swaggering  in  the  bar 
with  the  lowest  assumption  of  the  lowest  European 
manners ;  rapping  out  blackguard  English  oaths  in  his 
canorous  oriental  voice;  and  combining  in  one  person 
the  depravities  of  two  races  and  two  civilizations.  For 
all  his  lust  and  vigour,  he  seemed  to  look  cold  upon 
me  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  the  gallows.  He 
imagined  a  vain  thing;  and  while  he  drained  his  cock- 
tail, Holbein's  death  was  at  his  elbow.  Once,  too,  I 
fell  in  talk  with  another  of  these  flitting  strangers  —  like 
the  rest,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  all  begrimed  with  dust 
—  and  the  next  minute  we  were  discussing  Paris  and 
London,  theatres  and  wines.  To  him,  journeying  from 
one  human  place  to  another,  this  was  a  trifle ;  but  to 
me!    No,  Mr.  Lillie,  I  have  not  forgotten  it. 

And  presently  the  city-tide  was  at  its  flood  and  began 
to  ebb.  Life  runs  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  say,  from  nine 
to  one,  and  then,  there  also,  ebbs  into  the  small  hours 
of  the  echoing  policemen  and  the  lamps  and  stars.  But 
the  Toll  House  is  far  up  stream,  and  near  its  rural 
springs ;  the  bubble  of  the  tide  but  touches  it.  Before 
you  had  yet  grasped  your  pleasure,  the  horses  were  put 
to,  the  loud  whips  volleyed,  and  the  tide  was  gone. 
North  and  south  had  the  two  stages  vanished,  the 
towering  dust  subsided  in  the  woods;  but  there  was 
still  an  interval  before  the  flush  had  fallen  on  your 
cheeks,  before  the  ear  became  once  more  contented 
with  the  silence,  or  the  seven  sleepers  of  the  Toll  House 

396 


THE  TOLL  HOUSE 

dozed  back  to  their  accustomed  corners.  Yet  a  little, 
and  the  ostler  would  swing  round  the  great  barrier 
across  the  road ;  and  in  the  golden  evening,  that  dreamy 
inn  begin  to  trim  its  lamps  and  spread  the  board  for 
supper. 

As  I  recall  the  place — the  green  dell  below;  the 
spires  of  pine;  the  sun-warm,  scented  air;  that  gray, 
gabled  inn,  with  its  faint  stirrings  of  life  amid  the  slum- 
ber of  the  mountains  —  I  slowly  awake  to  a  sense  of  ad- 
miration, gratitude,  and  almost  love.  A  fine  place, 
after  all,  for  a  wasted  life  to  doze  away  in  —  the  cuckoo 
clock  hooting  of  its  far  home  country ;  the  croquet  mal- 
lets, eloquent  of  English  lawns ;  the  stages  daily  bring- 
ing news  of  the  turbulent  world  away  below  there ;  and 
perhaps  once  in  the  summer,  a  salt  fog  pouring  over- 
head with  its  tale  of  the  Pacific. 


397 


A  STARRY  DRIVE 

In  our  rule  at  Silverado,  there  was  a  melancholy  inter- 
regnum. The  queen  and  the  crown  prince  with  one 
accord  fell  sick;  and,  as  1  was  sick  to  begin  with,  our 
lone  position  on  Mount  Saint  Helena  was  no  longer 
tenable,  and  we  had  to  hurry  back  to  Calistoga  and  a 
cottage  on  the  green.  By  that  time  we  had  begun  to 
realize  the  difficulties  of  our  position.  We  had  found 
what  an  amount  of  labour  it  cost  to  support  life  in  our 
red  canon ;  and  it  was  the  dearest  desire  of  our  hearts 
to  get  a  China-boy  to  go  along  with  us  when  we  re- 
turned. We  could  have  given  him  a  whole  house  to 
himself,  self-contained,  as  they  say  in  the  advertise- 
ments ;  and  on  the  money  question  we  were  prepared 
to  go  far.  Kong  Sam  Kee,  the  Calistoga  washerman, 
was  entrusted  with  the  affair;  and  from  day  to  day  it 
languished  on,  with  protestations  on  our  part  and  mel- 
lifluous excuses  on  the  part  of  Kong  Sam  Kee. 

At  length,  about  half-past  eight  of  our  last  evening, 
with  the  waggon  ready  harnessed  to  convey  us  up  the 
grade,  the  washerman,  with  a  somewhat  sneering  air, 
produced  the  boy.  He  was  a  handsome,  gentlemanly 
lad,  attired  in  rich  dark  blue,  and  shod  with  snowy 
white;  but,  alas!  he  had  heard  rumours  of  Silverado. 

293 


A  STARRY   DRIVE 

He  knew  it  for  a  lone  place  on  the  mountain-side,  with 
no  friendly  wash-house  near  by,  where  he  might  smoke 
a  pipe  of  opium  o'  nights  with  other  China-boys,  and 
lose  his  little  earnings  at  the  game  of  tan ;  and  he  first 
backed  out  for  more  money ;  and  then,  when  that  de- 
mand was  satisfied,  refused  to  come  point-blank.  He 
was  wedded  to  his  wash-houses ;  he  had  no  taste  for 
the  rural  life ;  and  we  must  go  to  our  mountain  servant- 
less.  It  must  have  been  near  half  an  hour  before  we 
reached  that  conclusion,  standing  in  the  midst  of  Calis- 
toga  high  street  under  the  stars,  and  the  China-boy  and 
Kong  Sam  Kee  singing  their  pigeon  English  in  the 
sweetest  voices  and  with  the  most  musical  inflections. 

We  were  not,  however,  to  return  alone;  for  we 
brought  with  us  Joe  Strong,  the  painter,  a  most  good- 
natured  comrade  and  a  capital  hand  at  an  omelette.  I 
do  not  know  in  which  capacity  he  was  most  valued — 
as  a  cook  or  a  companion ;  and  he  did  excellently  well 
in  both. 

The  Kong  Sam  Kee  negotiation  had  delayed  us  un- 
duly ;  it  must  have  been  half-past  nine  before  we  left 
Caljstoga,  and  night  came  fully  ere  we  struck  the  bot- 
tom of  the  grade.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  night.  It 
seemed  to  throw  calumny  in  the  teeth  of  all  the  painters 
that  ever  dabbled  in  starlight.  The  sky  itself  was  of 
a  ruddy,  powerful,  nameless,  changing  colour,  dark 
and  glossy  like  a  serpent's  back.  The  stars,  by  innumer- 
able millions,  stuck  boldly  forth  like  lamps.  The  milky 
way  was  bright,  like  a  moonlit  cloud;  half  heaven 
seemed  milky  way.  The  greater  luminaries  shone  each 
more  clearly  than  a  winter's  moon.  Their  light  was 
dyed  in  every  sort  of  colour — red,  like  fire;  blue,  like 

399 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

Steel;  green,  like  the  tracks  of  sunset;  and  so  sharply 
did  each  stand  forth  in  its  own  lustre  that  there  was  no 
appearance  of  that  flat,  star-spangled  arch  we  know  so 
well  in  pictures,  but  all  the  hollow  of  heaven  was  one 
chaos  of  contesting  luminaries  —  a  hurly-burly  of  stars. 
Against  this  the  hills  and  rugged  tree-tops  stood  out 
redly  dark. 

As  we  continued  to  advance,  the  lesser  lights  and 
milky  ways  first  grew  pale,  and  then  vanished;  the 
countless  hosts  of  heaven  dwindled  in  number  by  suc- 
cessive millions;  those  that  still  shone  had  tempered 
their  exceeding  brightness  and  fallen  back  into  their  cus- 
tomary wistful  distance ;  and  the  sky  declined  from  its 
first  bewildering  splendour  into  the  appearance  of  a 
common  night.  Slowly  this  change  proceeded,  and 
still  there  was  no  sign  of  any  cause.  Then  a  whiteness 
like  mist  was  thrown  over  the  spurs  of  the  mountain. 
Yet  a  while,  and,  as  we  turned  a  corner,  a  great  leap  of 
silver  light  and  net  of  forest  shadows  fell  across  the  road 
and  upon  our  wondering  waggonful ;  and,  swimming 
low  among  the  trees,  we  beheld  a  strange,  misshapen, 
waning  moon,  half-tilted  on  her  back. 

**  Where  are  ye  when  the  moon  appears  ?  "  so  the  old 
poet  sang,  half-taunting,  to  the  stars,  bent  upon  a  courtly 
purpose. 

*'As  the  sunlight  round  the  dim  earth's  midnight  tower  of  shadow  pours, 
Streaming  past  the  dim,  wide  portals, 
Viewless  to  the  eyes  of  mortals, 
Till  it  floods  the  moon's  pale  islet  or  the  morning's  golden  shores." 

So  sings  Mr.  Trowbridge,  with  a  noble  inspiration.  And 
so  had  the  sunlight  flooded  that  pale  islet  of  the  moon,  and 

400 


A  STARRY   DRIVE 

her  lit  face  put  out,  one  after  another,  that  galaxy  of  stars. 
The  wonder  of  the  drive  was  over;  but,  by  some  nice 
conjunction  of  clearness  in  the  air  and  fit  shadow  in  the 
valley  where  we  travelled,  we  had  seen  for  a  little  while 
that  brave  display  of  the  midnight  heavens.  It  was 
gone,  but  it  had  been ;  nor  shall  I  ever  again  behold  the 
stars  with  the  same  mind.  He  who  has  seen  the  sea 
commoved  with  a  great  hurricane,  thinks  of  it  very  differ- 
ently from  him  who  has  seen  it  only  in  a  calm.  And  the 
difference  between  a  calm  and  a  hurricane  is  not  greatly 
more  striking  than  that  between  the  ordinary  face  of 
night  and  the  splendour  that  shone  upon  us  in  that 
drive.  Two  in  our  waggon  knew  night  as  she  shines 
upon  the  tropics,  but  even  that  bore  no  comparison. 
The  nameless  colour  of  the  sky,  the  hues  of  the  star-fire, 
and  the  incredible  projection  of  the  stars  themselves, 
starting  from  their  orbits,  so  that  the  eye  seemed  to  dis- 
tinguish their  positions  in  the  hollow  of  space  —  these 
were  things  that  we  had  never  seen  before  and  shall 
never  see  again. 

Meanwhile,  in  this  altered  night,  we  proceeded  on  our 
way  among  the  scents  and  silence  of  the  forest,  reached 
the  top  of  the  grade,  wound  up  by  Hanson's,  and  came 
at  last  to  a  stand  under  the  flying  gargoyle  of  the  chute. 
Sam,  who  had  been  lying  back,  fast  asleep,  with  the 
moon  on  his  face,  got  down,  with  the  remark  that  it 
was  pleasant  *'to  be  home."  The  waggon  turned  and 
drove  away,  the  noise  gently  dying  in  the  woods,  and 
we  clambered  up  the  rough  path,  Caliban's  great  feat  of 
engineering,  and  came  home  to  Silverado. 

The  moon  shone  in  at  the  eastern  doors  and  windows, 
and  over  the  lumber  on  the  platform.     The  one  tall  pine 

401 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

beside  the  ledge  was  steeped  in  silver.  Away  up  the 
canon,  a  wild  cat  welcomed  us  with  three  discordant 
squalls.  But  once  we  had  lit  a  candle,  and  began  to 
review  our  improvements,  homely  in  either  sense,  and 
count  our  stores,  it  was  wonderful  what  a  feeling  of 
possession  and  permanence  grew  up  in  the  hearts  of 
the  lords  of  Silverado.  A  bed  had  still  to  be  made  up  for 
Strong,  and  the  morning's  water  to  be  fetched,  with  clink- 
ing pail ;  and  as  we  set  about  these  household  duties, 
and  showed  off  our  wealth  and  conveniences  before  the 
stranger,  and  had  a  glass  of  wine,  I  think,  in  honour  of 
our  return,  and  trooped  at  length  one  after  another  up 
the  flying  bridge  of  plank,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  our 
shattered,  moon-pierced  barrack,  we  were  among  the 
happiest  sovereigns  in  the  world,  and  certainly  ruled 
over  the  most  contented  people.  Yet,  in  our  absence, 
the  palace  had  been  sacked.  Wild  cats,  so  the  Hansons 
said,  had  broken  in  and  carried  off  a  side  of  bacon,  a 
hatchet,  and  two  knives. 


403 


EPISODES  IN  THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE 

No  one  could  live  at  Silverado  and  not  be  curious 
about  the  story  of  the  mine.  We  were  surrounded  by 
so  many  evidences  of  expense  and  toil,  we  lived  so  en- 
tirely in  the  wreck  of  that  great  enterprise,  like  mites  in 
the  ruins  of  a  cheese,  that  the  idea  of  the  old  din  and 
bustle  haunted  our  repose.  Our  own  house,  the  forge, 
the  dump,  the  chutes,  the  rails,  the  windlass,  the  mass 
of  broken  plant;  the  two  tunnels,  one  far  below  in  the 
green  dell,  the  other  on  the  platform  where  we  kept  our 
wine;  the  deep  shaft,  with  the  sun-glints  and  the  water- 
drops  ;  above  all,  the  ledge,  that  great  gaping  slice  out 
of  the  mountain  shoulder,  propped  apart  by  wooden 
wedges,  on  whose  immediate  margin,  high  above  our 
heads,  the  one  tall  pine  precariously  nodded  —  these 
stood  for  its  greatness;  while,  the  dog-hutch,  boot- 
jacks, old  boots,  old  tavern  bills,  and  the  very  beds 
that  we  inherited  from  bygone  miners,  put  in  human 
touches  and  realised  for  us  the  story  of  the  past. 

I  have  sat  on  an  old  sleeper,  under  the  thick  madronas 
near  the  forge,  with  just  a  look  over  the  dump  on  the 
green  world  below,  and  seen  the  sun  lying  broad  among 
the  wreck,  and  heard  the  silence  broken  only  by  the 
tinkling  water  in  the  shaft,  or  a  stir  of  the  royal  family 

403 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

about  the  battered  palace,  and  my  mind  has  gone  back 
to  the  epoch  of  the  Stanleys  and  the  Chapmans,  with  a 
grand  tutti  of  pick  and  drill,  hammer  and  anvil,  echoing 
about  the  canon ;  the  assayer  hard  at  it  in  our  dining- 
room  ;  the  carts  below  on  the  road,  and  their  cargo  of 
red  mineral  bounding  and  thundering  down  the  iron 
chute.  And  now  all  gone  —  all  fallen  away  into  this 
sunny  silence  and  desertion :  a  family  of  squatters  din- 
ing in  the  assayer's  office,  making  their  beds  in  the  big 
sleeping  room  erstwhile  so  crowded,  keeping  their  wine 
in  the  tunnel  that  once  rang  with  picks. 

But  Silverado  itself,  although  now  fallen  in  its  turn 
into  decay,  was  once  but  a  mushroom,  and  had  succeeded 
to  other  mines  and  other  flitting  cities.  Twenty  years 
ago,  away  down  the  glen  on  the  Lake  County  side  there 
was  a  place,  Jonestown  by  name,  with  two  thousand 
inhabitants  dwelling  under  canvas,  and  one  roofed  house 
for  the  sale  of  whiskey.  Round  on  the  western  side  of 
Mount  Saint  Helena,  there  was  at  the  same  date,  a  sec- 
ond large  encampment,  its  name,  if  it  ever  had  one,  lost 
for  me.  Both  of  these  have  perished,  leaving  not  a  stick 
and  scarce  a  memory  behind  them.  Tide  after  tide  of 
hopeful  miners  have  thus  flowed  and  ebbed  about  the 
mountain,  coming  and  going,  now  by  lone  prospectors, 
now  with  a  rush.  Last,  in  order  of  time  came  Sil- 
verado, reared  the  big  mill,  in  the  valley,  founded  the 
town  which  is  now  represented,  monumentally,  by 
Hanson's,  pierced  all  these  slaps  and  shafts  and  tunnels, 
and  in  turn  declined  and  died  away. 

"  Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  wake 
Of  the  eternal  silence." 
404 


EPISODES  IN  THE  STORY   OF  A  MINE 

As  to  the  success  of  Silverado  in  its  time  of  being, 
two  reports  were  current.  According  to  the  first,  six 
hundred  thousand  dollars  were  taken  out  of  that  great 
upright  seam,  that  still  hung  open  above  us  on  crazy 
wedges.  Then  the  ledge  pinched  out,  and  there  fol- 
lowed, in  quest  of  the  remainder,  a  great  drifting  and 
tunnelling  in  all  directions,  and  a  great  consequent  effu- 
sion of  dollars,  until,  all  parties  being  sick  of  the  ex- 
pense, the  mine  was  deserted,  and  the  town  decamped. 
According  to  the  second  version,  told  me  with  much 
secrecy  of  manner,  the  whole  affair,  mine,  mill,  and 
town,  were  parts  of  one  majestic  swindle.  There  had 
never  come  any  silver  out  of  any  portion  of  the  mine; 
there  was  no  silver  to  come.  At  midnight  trains  of 
packhorses  might  have  been  observed  winding  by  de- 
vious tracks  about  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  They 
came  from  far  away,  from  Amador  or  Placer,  laden  with 
silver  in  *'old  cigar  boxes."  They  discharged  their 
load  at  Silverado,  in  the  hour  of  sleep;  and  before  the 
morning  they  were  gone  again  with  their  mysterious 
drivers  to  their  unknown  source.  In  this  way,  twenty 
thousand  pounds'  worth  of  silver  was  smuggled  in  un- 
der cover  of  night,  in  these  old  cigar  boxes;  mixed  with 
Silverado  mineral;  carted  down  to  the  mill;  crushed, 
amalgamated,  and  refined,  and  despatched  to  the  city 
as  the  proper  product  of  the  mine.  Stock-jobbing,  if  it 
can  cover  such  expenses,  must  be  a  profitable  business 
in  San  Francisco. 

I  give  these  two  versions  as  I  got  them.  But  I  place 
little  reliance  on  either,  my  belief  in  history  having  been 
greatly  shaken.  For  it  chanced  that  I  had  come  to  dwell 
in  Silverado  at  a  critical  hour;  great  events  in  its  history 

405 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

were  about  to  happen  —  did  happen,  as  I  am  led  to  be- 
lieve; nay,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  I  played  a  part  in 
that  revolution  myself.  And  yet  from  first  to  last  I 
never  had  a  glimmer  of  an  idea  what  was  going  on; 
and  even  now,  after  full  reflection,  profess  myself  at 
sea.  That  there  was  some  obscure  intrigue  of  the 
cigar-box  order,  and  that  1,  in  the  character  of  a  wooden 
puppet,  set  pen  to  paper  in  the  interest  of  somebody,  so 
much,  and  no  more,  is  certain. 

Silverado,  then  under  my  immediate  sway,  belonged 
to  one  whom  1  will  call  a  Mr.  Ronalds.  I  only  knew  him 
through  the  extraordinarily  distorting  medium  of  local 
gossip,  now  as  a  momentous  jobber;  now  as  a  dupe  to 
point  an  adage;  and  again,  and  much  more  probably, 
as  an  ordinary  Christian  gentleman  like  you  or  me,  who 
had  opened  a  mine  and  worked  it  for  a  while  with  bet- 
ter and  worse  fortune.  So,  through  a  defective  window- 
pane,  you  may  see  the  passer-by  shoot  up  into  a  hunch- 
backed giant,  or  dwindle  into  a  pot-bellied  dwarf. 

To  Ronalds,  at  least,  the  mine  belonged;  but  the 
notice  by  which  he  held  it  would  run  out  upon  the  30th 
of  June — or  rather,  as  I  suppose,  it  had  run  out  already, 
and  the  month  of  grace  would  expire  upon  that  day, 
after  which  any  American  citizen  might  post  a  notice  of 
his  own,  and  make  Silverado  his.  This,  with  a  sort  of 
quiet  slyness,  Rufe  told  me  at  an  early  period  of  our 
acquaintance.  There  was  no  silver,  of  course ;  the  mine 
*' wasn't  worth  nothing,  Mr.  Stevens,"  but  there  was  a 
deal  of  old  iron  and  wood  around,  and  to  gain  posses- 
sion of  this  old  wood  and  iron,  and  get  a  right  to  the 
water,  Rufe  proposed,  if  I  had  no  objections,  to  **jump 
the  claim." 

406 


EPISODES  IN   THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE 

Of  course,  I  had  no  objection.  But  I  was  filled  with 
wonder.  If  all  he  wanted  was  the  wood  and  iron, 
what,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  was  to  prevent  him  taking 
them.?  ''His  right  there  was  none  to  dispute."  He 
might  lay  hands  on  all  to-morrow,  as  the  wild  cats  had 
laid  hands  upon  our  knives  and  hatchet.  Besides,  was 
this  mass  of  heavy  mining  plant  worth  transportation  ? 
If  it  was,  why  had  not  the  rightful  owners  carted  it 
away  ?  If  it  was,  would  they  not  preserve  their  title  to 
these  movables,  even  after  they  had  lost  their  title  to  the 
mine  ?  And  if  it  were  not,  what  the  better  was  Rufe  ? 
Nothing  would  grow  at  Silverado ;  there  was  even  no 
wood  to  cut;  beyond  a  sense  of  property,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained.  Lastly,  was  it  at  all  credible  that 
Ronalds  would  forget  what  Rufe  remembered  ?  The 
days  of  grace  were  not  yet  over:  any  fine  morning  he 
might  appear,  paper  in  hand,  and  enter  for  another  year 
on  his  inheritance.  However,  it  was  none  of  my  busi- 
ness; all  seemed  legal;  Rufe  or  Ronalds,  all  was  one 
to  me. 

On  the  morning  of  the  27th,  Mrs.  Hanson  appeared 
with  the  milk  as  usual,  in  her  sun-bonnet.  The  time 
would  be  out  on  Tuesday,  she  reminded  us,  and  bade 
me  be  in  readiness  to  play  my  part,  though  I  had  no  idea 
what  it  was  to  be.  And  suppose  Ronalds  came  ?  we 
asked.  She  received  the  idea  with  derision,  laughing 
aloud  with  all  her  fine  teeth.  He  could  not  find  the 
mine  to  save  his  life,  it  appeared,  without  Rufe  to  guide 
him.  Last  year,  when  he  came,  they  heard  him  *'up 
and  down  the  road  a  hollerin'  and  a  raisin'  Cain."  And 
at  last  he  had  to  come  to  the  Hansons  in  despair,  and 
bid  Rufe,  ''Jump  into  your  pants  and  shoes,  and  show 

407 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

me  where  this  old  mine  is,  anyway!"  Seeing  that 
Ronalds  had  laid  out  so  much  money  in  the  spot,  and 
that  a  beaten  road  led  right  up  to  the  bottom  of  the  dump, 
I  thought  this  a  remarkable  example.  The  sense  of  local- 
ity must  be  singularly  in  abeyance  in  the  case  of  Ronalds. 

That  same  evening,  supper  comfortably  over,  Joe 
Strong  busy  at  work  on  a  drawing  of  the  dump  and  the 
opposite  hills,  we  were  all  out  on  the  platform  together, 
sitting  there,  under  the  tented  heavens,  with  the  same 
sense  of  privacy  as  if  we  had  been  cabined  in  a  parlour, 
when  the  sound  of  brisk  footsteps  came  mounting  up 
the  path.  We  pricked  our  ears  at  this,  for  the  tread 
seemed  lighter  and  firmer  than  was  usual  with  our 
country  neighbours.  And  presently,  sure  enough,  two 
town  gentlemen,  with  cigars  and  kid  gloves,  came  de- 
bouching past  the  house.  They  looked  in  that  place 
like  a  blasphemy. 

**Good  evening,"  they  said.  For  none  of  us  had 
stirred;  we  all  sat  stiff  with  wonder. 

**Good  evening,"  I  returned;  and  then,  to  put  them 
at  their  ease,  '*  A  stiff  climb,"  I  added. 

'*Yes,"  replied  the  leader;  ''but  we  have  to  thank 
you  for  this  path." 

I  did  not  like  the  man's  tone.  None  of  us  liked  it. 
He  did  not  seem  embarrassed  by  the  meeting,  but  threw 
us  his  remarks  like  favours,  and  strode  magisterially  by 
us  towards  the  shaft  and  tunnel. 

Presently  we  heard  his  voice  raised  to  his  companion. 
**We  drifted  every  sort  of  way,  but  couldn't  strike  the 
ledge."  Then  again:  'Mt  pinched  out  here."  And 
once  more:  ** Every  miner  that  ever  worked  upon  it 
says  there's  bound  to  be  a  ledge  somewhere." 

408 


EPISODES   IN   THE  STORY   OF  A   MINE 

These  were  the  snatches  of  his  talk  that  reached  us, 
and  they  had  a  damning  significance.  We,  the  lords  of 
Silverado,  had  come  face  to  face  with  our  superior.  It 
is  the  worst  of  all  quaint  and  of  all  cheap  ways  of  life 
that  they  bring  us  at  last  to  the  pinch  of  some  humilia- 
tion. I  liked  well  enough  to  be  a  squatter  when  there 
was  none  but  Hanson  by ;  before  Ronalds,  I  will  own, 
I  somewhat  quailed.  I  hastened  to  do  him  fealty,  said 
I  gathered  he  was  the  Squattee,  and  apologised.  He 
threatened  me  with  ejection,  in  a  manner  grimly  plea- 
sant—  more  pleasant  to  him,  I  fancy,  than  to  me;  and 
then  he  passed  off  into  praises  of  the  former  state  of 
Silverado.  "  It  was  the  busiest  little  mining  town  you 
ever  saw : "  a  population  of  between  a  thousand  and 
fifteen  hundred  souls,  the  engine  in  full  blast,  the  mill 
newly  erected ;  nothing  going  but  champagne,  and  hope 
the  order  of  the  day.  Ninety  thousand  dollars  came 
out;  a  hundred  and  forty  thousand  were  put  in,  making 
a  net  loss  of  fifty  thousand.  The  last  days,  I  gathered, 
the  days  of  John  Stanley,  were  not  so  bright;  the  cham- 
pagne had  ceased  to  flow,  the  population  was  already 
moving  elsewhere,  and  Silverado  had  begun  to  wither 
in  the  branch  before  it  was  cut  at  the  root.  The  last 
shot  that  was  fired  knocked  over  the  stove  chimney, 
and  made  that  hole  in  the  roof  of  our  barrack,  through 
which  the  sun  was  wont  to  visit  slug-a-beds  towards 
afternoon.  A  noisy  last  shot,  to  inaugurate  the  days  of 
silence. 

Throughout  this  interview,  my  conscience  was  a 
good  deal  exercised;  and  I  was  moved  to  throw  my- 
self on  my  knees  and  own  the  intended  treachery.  But 
then  I  had  Hanson  to  consider.     I  was  in  much  the 

409 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

same  position  as  Old  Rowley,  that  royal  humourist, 
whom  '*  the  rogue  had  taken  into  his  confidence."  And 
again,  here  was  Ronalds  on  the  spot.  He  must  know 
the  day  of  the  month  as  well  as  Hanson  and  I.  If  a 
broad  hint  were  necessary,  he  had  the  broadest  in  the 
world.  For  a  large  board  had  been  nailed  by  the  crown 
prince  on  the  very  front  of  our  house,  between  the  door 
and  window,  painted  in  cinnabar  —  the  pigment  of  the 
country  —  with  doggrel  rhymes  and  contumelious  pic- 
tures, and  announcing,  in  terms  unnecessarily  figur- 
ative, that  the  trick  was  already  played,  the  claim  al- 
ready jumped,  and  Master  Sam  the  legitimate  successor 
of  Mr.  Ronalds.  But  no,  nothing  could  save  that  man ; 
quern  deus  vult  perdere,  prim  dementat.  As  he  came 
so  he  went,  and  left  his  rights  depending. 

Late  at  night,  by  Silverado  reckoning,  and  after  we 
were  all  abed,  Mrs.  Hanson  returned  to  give  us  the 
newest  of  her  news.  It  was  like  a  scene  in  a  ship's 
steerage :  all  of  us  abed  in  our  different  tiers,  the  single 
candle  struggling  with  the  darkness,  and  this  plump, 
handsome  woman,  seated  on  an  upturned  valise  beside 
the  bunks,  talking  and  showing  her  fine  teeth,  and 
laughing  till  the  rafters  rang.  Any  ship,  to  be  sure, 
with  a  hundredth  part  as  many  holes  in  it  as  our  bar- 
rack, must  long  ago  have  gone  to  her  last  port.  Up  to 
that  time  I  had  always  imagined  Mrs.  Hanson's  loqua- 
city to  be  mere  incontinence,  that  she  said  what  was 
uppermost  for  the  pleasure  of  speaking,  and  laughed 
and  laughed  again  as  a  kind  of  musical  accompaniment. 
But  I  now  found  there  was  an  art  in  it.  I  found  it  less 
communicative  than  silence  itself.  I  wished  to  know 
why  Ronalds  had  come;  how  he  had  found  his  way 

410 


EPISODES  IN  THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE 

without  Rufe ;  and  why,  being  on  the  spot,  he  had  not 
refreshed  his  title.  She  talked  interminably  on,  but  her 
replies  were  never  answers.  She  fled  under  a  cloud  of 
words ;  and  when  I  had  made  sure  that  she  was  pur- 
posely eluding  me,  I  dropped  the  subject  in  my  turn, 
and  let  her  rattle  where  she  would. 

She  had  come  to  tell  us  that,  instead  of  waiting  for 
Tuesday,  the  claim  was  to  be  jumped  on  the  morrow. 
How  ?  If  the  time  were  not  out,  it  was  impossible. 
Why  ?  If  Ronalds  had  come  and  gone,  and  done  noth- 
ing, there  was  the  less  cause  for  hurry.  But  again  I 
could  reach  no  satisfaction.  The  claim  was  to  be 
jumped  next  morning,  that  was  all  that  she  would 
condescend  upon. 

And  yet  it  was  not  jumped  the  next  morning,  nor 
yet  the  next,  and  a  whole  week  had  come  and  gone 
before  we  heard  more  of  this  exploit.  That  day  week, 
however,  a  day  of  great  heat,  Hanson,  with  a  little  roll 
of  paper  in  his  hand,  and  the  eternal  pipe  alight;  Breed- 
love,  his  large,  dull  friend,  to  act,  I  suppose,  as  witness ; 
Mrs.  Hanson,  in  her  Sunday  best;  and  all  the  children, 
from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest;  —  arrived  in  a  proces- 
sion, tailing  one  behind  another  up  the  path.  Caliban 
was  absent,  but  he  had  been  chary  of  his  friendly  visits 
since  the  row;  and  with  that  exception,  the  whole 
family  was  gathered  together  as  for  a  marriage  or  a 
christening.  Strong  was  sitting  at  work,  in  the  shade 
of  the  dwarf  madronas  near  the  forge ;  and  they  planted 
themselves  about  him  in  a  circle,  one  on  a  stone,  another 
on  the  waggon  rails,  a  third  on  a  piece  of  plank.  Grad- 
ually the  children  stole  away  up  the  canon  to  where 
there  was  another  chute,  somewhat  smaller  than  the 

411 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

one  across  the  dump;  and  down  this  chute,  for  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon,  they  poured  one  avalanche  of  stones 
after  another,  waking  the  echoes  of  the  glen.  Mean- 
time we  elders  sat  together  on  the  platform,  Hanson 
and  his  friend  smoking  in  silence  like  Indian  sachems, 
Mrs.  Hanson  rattling  on  as  usual  with  an  adroit  volu- 
bility, saying  nothing,  but  keeping  the  party  at  their 
ease  like  a  courtly  hostess. 

Not  a  word  occurred  about  the  business  of  the  day. 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  I  tried  to  slide  the  subject  in, 
but  was  discouraged  by  the  stoic  apathy  of  Rufe,  and 
beaten  down  before  the  pouring  verbiage  of  his  wife. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  Indian  brave  about  me,  and  I 
began  to  grill  with  impatience.  At  last,  like  a  highway 
robber,  I  cornered  Hanson,  and  bade  him  stand  and 
deliver  his  business.  Thereupon  he  gravely  rose,  as 
though  to  hint  that  this  was  not  a  proper  place,  nor  the 
subject  one  suitable  for  squaws,  and  I,  following  his 
example,  led  him  up  the  plank  into  our  barrack.  There 
he  bestowed  himself  on  a  box,  and  unrolled  his  papers 
with  fastidious  deliberation.  There  were  two  sheets 
of  note-paper,  and  an  old  mining  notice,  dated  May 
30th,  1879,  part  print,  part  manuscript,  and  the  latter 
much  obliterated  by  the  rains.  It  was  by  this  identical 
piece  of  paper  that  the  mine  had  been  held  last  year. 
For  thirteen  months  it  had  endured  the  weather  and 
the  change  of  seasons  on  a  cairn  behind  the  shoulder 
of  the  canon ;  and  it  was  now  my  business,  spreading 
it  before  me  on  the  table,  and  sitting  on  a  valise,  to 
copy  its  terms,  with  some  necessary  changes,  twice 
over  on  the  two  sheets  of  note-paper.  One  was  then 
to  be  placed  on  the  same  cairn  —  a  "mound  of  rocks" 

412 


EPISODES   IN   THE  STORY   OF  A   MINE 

the  notice  put  it;  and  the  other  to  be  lodged  for  regis- 
tration. 

Rufe  watched  me,  silently  smoking,  till  I  came  to  the 
place  for  the  locator's  name  at  the  end  of  the  first  copy ; 
and  when  I  proposed  that  he  should  sign,  I  thought  I 
saw  a  scare  in  his  eye.  "I  don't  think  that'll  be  neces- 
sary," he  said  slowly;  "just  you  write  it  down."  Per- 
haps this  mighty  hunter,  who  was  the  most  active 
member  of  the  local  school  board,  could  not  write. 
There  would  be  nothing  strange  in  that.  The  constable 
of  Calistoga  is,  and  has  been  for  years,  a  bed-ridden 
man,  and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  blind.  He  had  more 
need  of  the  emoluments  than  another,  it  was  explained ; 
and  it  was  easy  for  him  to  **depytize,"  with  a  strong 
accent  on  the  last.  So  friendly  and  so  free  are  popular 
institutions. 

When  I  had  done  my  scrivening,  Hanson  strolled  out, 
and  addressed  Breedlove,  '  *  Will  you  step  up  here  a  bit  ?  " 
and  after  they  had  disappeared  a  little  while  into  the 
chaparral  and  madrona  thicket,  they  came  back  again, 
minus  a  notice,  and  the  deed  was  done.  The  claim 
was  jumped;  a  tract  of  mountain-side,  fifteen  hundred 
feet  long  by  six  hundred  wide,  with  all  the  earth's 
precious  bowels,  had  passed  from  Ronalds  to  Hanson, 
and,  in  the  passage,  changed  its  name  from  the  "Mam- 
moth "  to  the  "  Calistoga."  I  had  tried  to  get  Rufe  to 
call  it  after  his  wife,  after  himself,  and  after  Garfield, 
the  Republican  Presidential  candidate  of  the  hour — 
since  then  elected,  and,  alas!  dead — but  all  was  in  vain. 
The  claim  had  once  been  called  the  Calistoga  before,  and 
he  seemed  to  feel  safety  in  returning  to  that. 

And  so  the  history  of  that  mine  became  once  more 

4'3 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

plunged  in  darkness,  lit  only  by  some  monster  pyro- 
technical  displays  of  gossip.  And  perhaps  the  most 
curious  feature  of  the  whole  matter  is  this:  that  we 
should  have  dwelt  in  this  quiet  corner  of  the  mountains, 
with  not  a  dozen  neighbours,  and  yet  struggled  all  the 
while,  like  desperate  swimmers,  in  -this  sea  of  falsities 
and  contradictions.  Wherever  a  man  is,  there  will  be 
a  lie. 


414 


TOILS  AND  PLEASURES 

I  MUST  try  to  convey  some  notion  of  our  life,  of  how 
the  days  passed  and  what  pleasure  we  took  in  them, 
of  what  there  was  to  do  and  how  we  set  about  doing 
it,  in  our  mountain  hermitage.  The  nouse,  after  we 
had  repaired  the  worst  of  the  damages,  and  filled  in 
some  of  the  doors  and  windows  with  white  cotton 
cloth,  became  a  healthy  and  a  pleasant  dwelling-place, 
always  airy  and  dry,  and  haunted  by  the  outdoor  per- 
fumes of  the  glen.  Within,  it  had  the  look  of  habita- 
tion, the  human  look.  You  had  only  to  go  into  the 
third  room,  which  we  did  not  use,  and  see  its  stones, 
its  sifting  earth,  its  tumbled  litter;  and  then  return  to 
our  lodging,  with  the  beds  made,  the  plates  on  the 
rack,  the  pail  of  bright  water  behind  the  door,  the  stove 
crackling  in  a  corner,  and  perhaps  the  table  roughly 
laid  against  a  meal, —  and  man's  order,  the  little  clean 
spots  that  he  creates  to  dwell  in,  were  at  once  con- 
trasted with  the  rich  passivity  of  nature.  And  yet  our 
house  was  everywhere  so  wrecked  and  shattered,  the 
air  came  and  went  so  freely,  the  sun  found  so  many 
portholes,  the  golden  outdoor  glow  shone  in  so  many 
open  chinks,  that  we  enjoyed,  at  the  same  time,  some 
of  the  comforts  of  a  roof  and  much  of  the  gaiety  and 

415 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

brightness  of  al  fresco  life.  A  single  shower  of  rain,  to 
be  sure,  and  we  should  have  been  drowned  out  like 
mice.  But  ours  was  a  Californian  summer,  and  an 
earthquake  was  a  far  likelier  accident  than  a  shower  of 
rain. 

Trustful  in  this  fine  weather,  we  kept  the  house  for 
kitchen  and  bedroom,  and  used  the  platform  as  our 
summer  parlour.  The  sense  of  privacy,  as  I  have  said 
already,  was  complete.  We  could  look  over  the  dump 
on  miles  of  forest  and  rough  hilltop;  our  eyes  com- 
manded  some  of  Napa  Valley,  where  the  train  ran,  and 
the  little  country  townships  sat  so  close  together  along 
the  line  of  the  rail.  But  here  there  was  no  man  to  in- 
trude. None  but  the  Hansons  were  our  visitors.  Even 
they  came  but  at  long  intervals,  or  twice  daily,  at  a  stated 
hour,  with  milk.  So  our  days,  as  they  were  never  in- 
terrupted, drew  out  to  the  greater  length ;  hour  melted 
insensibly  into  hour;  the  household  duties,  though  they 
were  many,  and  some  of  them  laborious,  dwindled  into 
mere  islets  of  business  in  a  sea  of  sunny  day-time ;  and 
it  appears  to  me,  looking  back,  as  though  the  far  greater 
part  of  our  life  at  Silverado  had  been  passed,  propped 
upon  an  elbow,  or  seated  on  a  plank,  listening  to  the 
silence  that  there  is  among  the  hills. 

My  work,  it  is  true,  was  over  early  in  the  morning. 
I  rose  before  any  one  else,  lit  the  stove,  put  on  the  water 
to  boil,  and  strolled  forth  upon  the  platform  to  wait  till 
it  was  ready.  Silverado  would  then  be  still  in  shadow, 
the  sun  shining  on  the  mountain  higher  up.  A  clean 
smell  of  trees,  a  smell  of  the  earth  at  morning,  hung  in 
the  air.  Regularly,  every  day,  there  was  a  single  bird, 
not  singing,   but  awkwardly  chirruping  among  the 

416 


TOILS   AND   PLEASURES 

green  madronas,  and  the  sound  was  cheerful,  natu- 
ral, and  stirring.  It  did  not  hold  the  attention,  nor  in- 
terrupt the  thread  of  meditation,  like  a  blackbird  or  a 
nightingale;  it  was  mere  woodland  prattle,  of  which 
the  mind  was  conscious  like  a  perfume.  The  freshness 
of  these  morning  seasons  remained  with  me  far  on  into 
the  day. 

As  soon  as  the  kettle  boiled,  I  made  porridge  and 
coffee;  and  that,  beyond  the  literal  drawing  of  water, 
and  the  preparation  of  kindling,  which  it  would  be  hy- 
perbolical to  call  the  hewing  of  wood,  ended  my  do- 
mestic duties  for  the  day.  Thenceforth  my  wife  laboured 
single-handed  in  the  palace,  and  I  lay  or  wandered  on 
the  platform  at  my  own  sweet  will.  The  little  corner 
near  the  forge,  where  we  found  a  refuge  under  the  ma- 
dronas from  the  unsparing  early  sun,  is  indeed  connected 
in  my  mind  with  some  nightmare  encounters  over  Eu- 
clid, and  the  Latin  Grammar.  These  were  known  as 
Sam's  lessons.  He  was  supposed  to  be  the  victim  and 
the  sufferer;  but  here  there  must  have  been  some  mis- 
conception, for  whereas  I  generally  retired  to  bed  after 
one  of  these  engagements,  he  was  no  sooner  set  free 
than  he  dashed  up  to  the  Chinaman's  house,  where  he 
had  installed  a  printing  press,  that  great  element  of  civ- 
ilization, and  the  sound  of  his  labours  would  be  faintly 
audible  about  the  canon  half  the  day. 

To  walk  at  all  was  a  laborious  business ;  the  foot  sank 
and  slid,  the  boots  were  cut  to  pieces,  among  sharp, 
uneven,  rolling  stones.  When  we  crossed  the  platform 
in  any  direction,  it  was  usual  to  lay  a  course,  following 
as  much  as  possible  the  line  of  waggon  rails.  Thus,  if 
water  were  to  be  drawn,  the  water-carrier  left  the  house 

4»7 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

along  some  tilting  planks  that  we  had  laid  down,  and 
not  laid  down  very  well.  These  carried  him  to  that 
great  highroad,  the  railway;  and  the  railway  served 
him  as  far  as  to  the  head  of  the  shaft.  But  from  thence 
to  the  spring  and  back  again  he  made  the  best  of  his 
unaided  way,  staggering  among  the  stones,  and  wading 
in  low  growth  of  the  calycanthus,  where  the  rattlesnakes 
lay  hissing  at  his  passage.  Yet  I  liked  to  draw  water. 
It  was  pleasant  to  dip  the  gray  metal  pail  into  the  clean, 
colourless,  cool  water;  pleasant  to  carry  it  back,  with 
the  water  lipping  at  the  edge,  and  a  broken  sunbeam 
quivering  in  the  midst. 

But  the  extreme  roughness  of  the  walking  confined  us 
in  common  practice  to  the  platform,  and  indeed  to  those 
parts  of  it  that  were  most  easily  accessible  along  the 
line  of  rails.  The  rails  came  straight  forward  from  the 
shaft,  here  and  there  overgrown  with  little  green  bushes, 
but  still  entire,  and  still  carrying  a  truck,  which  it  was 
Sam's  delight  to  trundle  to  and  fro  by  the  hour  with 
various  ladings.  About  midway  down  the  platform, 
the  railroad  trended  to  the  right,  leaving  our  house  and 
coasting  along  the  far  side  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
madronas  and  the  forge,  and  not  far  off  the  latter,  ended 
in  a  sort  of  platform  on  the  edge  of  the  dump.  There, 
in  old  days,  the  trucks  were  tipped,  and  their  load  sent 
thundering  down  the  chute.  There,  besides,  was  the 
only  spot  where  we  could  approach  the  margin  of  the 
dump.  Anywhere  else,  you  took  your  life  in  your  right 
hand  when  you  came  within  a  yard  and  a  half  to  peer 
over.  For  at  any  moment  the  dump  might  begin  to 
slide  and  carry  you  down  and  bury  you  below  its  ruins. 
Indeed,  the  neighbourhood  of  an  old  mine  is  a  place  be- 

418 


TOILS  AND   PLEASURES 

set  with  dangers.  For  as  still  as  Silverado  was,  at  any 
moment  the  report  of  rotten  wood  might  tell  us  that  the 
platform  had  fallen  into  the  shaft;  the  dump  might  be- 
gin to  pour  into  the  road  below;  or  a  wedge  slip  in  the 
great  upright  seam,  and  hundreds  of  tons  of  mountain 
bury  the  scene  of  our  encampment. 

I  have  already  compared  the  dump  to  a  rampart,  built 
certainly  by  some  rude  people,  and  for  prehistoric  wars. 
It  was  likewise  a  frontier.  All  below  was  green  and 
woodland,  the  tall  pines  soaring  one  above  another,  each 
with  a  firm  outline  and  full  spread  of  bough.  All  above 
was  arid,  rocky,  and  bald.  The  great  spout  of  broken 
mineral,  that  had  dammed  the  canon  up,  was  a  crea- 
ture of  man's  handiwork,  its  material  dug  out  with  a  pick 
and  powder,  and  spread  by  the  service  of  the  trucks. 
But  nature  herself,  in  that  upper  district,  seemed  to  have 
had  an  eye  to  nothing  besides  mining;  and  even  the 
natural  hill-side  was  all  sliding  gravel  and  precarious 
boulder.  Close  at  the  margin  of  the  well  leaves  would 
decay  to  skeletons  and  mummies,  which  at  length  some 
stronger  gust  would  carry  clear  of  the  canon  and 
scatter  in  the  subjacent  woods.  Even  moisture  and  de- 
caying vegetable  matter  could  not,  with  all  nature's 
alchemy,,  concoct  enough  soil  to  nourish  a  few  poor 
grasses.  It  is  the  same,  they  say,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  all  silver  mines ;  the  nature  of  that  precious  rock 
being  stubborn  with  quartz  and  poisonous  with  cinnabar. 
Both  were  plenty  in  our  Silverado.  The  stones  sparkled 
white  in  the  sunshine  with  quartz;  they  were  all  stained 
red  with  cinnabar.  Here,  doubtless,  came  the  Indians 
of  yore  to  paint  their  faces  for  the  war-path ;  and  cin- 
nabar, if  I  remember  rightly,  was  one  of  the  few  articles 

419 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

of  Indian  commerce.  Now,  Sam  had  it  in  his  undis- 
turbed possession,  to  pound  down  and  slake,  and  paint 
his  rude  designs  with.  But  to  me  it  had  always  a  fine 
flavour  of  poetry,  compounded  out  of  Indian  story  and 
Hawthornden's  allusion : 

*'  Desire,  alas!  desire  a  Zeuxis  new, 
From  Indies  borrowing  gold,  from  Eastern  skies 
Most  bright  cinoper    .     .     ." 

Yet  this  is  but  half  the  picture ;  our  Silverado  platform 
has  another  side  to  it.  Though  there  was  no  soil,  and 
scarce  a  blade  of  grass,  yet  out  of  these  tumbled  gravel- 
heaps  and  broken  boulders,  a  flower  garden  bloomed  as 
at  home  in  a  conservatory.  Calycanthus  crept,  like  a 
hardy  weed,  all  over  our  rough  parlour,  choking  the 
railway,  and  pushing  forth  its  rusty,  aromatic  cones 
from  between  two  blocks  of  shattered  mineral.  Azaleas 
made  a  big  snow-bed  just  above  the  well.  The  shoul- 
der of  the  hill  waved  white  with  Mediterranean  heath. 
In  the  crannies  of  the  ledge  and  about  the  spurs  of  the 
tall  pine,  a  red  flowering  stone-plant  hung  in  clusters. 
Even  the  low,  thorny  chaparral  was  thick  with  pea-like 
blossom.  Close  at  the  foot  of  our  path  nutmegs  pros- 
pered, delightful  to  the  sight  and  smell.  At  sunrise, 
and  again  late  at  night,  the  scent  of  the  sweet  bay  trees 
filled  the  canon,  and  the  down-blowing  night  wind 
must  have  borne  it  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  outer  air. 

All  this  vegetation,  to  be  sure,  was  stunted.  The 
madrona  was  here  no  bigger  than  the  manzanita ;  the 
bay  was  but  a  stripling  shrub ;  the  very  pines,  with  four 
or  five  exceptions  in  all  our  upper  canon,  were  not  so 

420 


TOILS  AND   PLEASURES 

tall  as  myself,  or  but  a  little  taller,  and  the  most  of  them 
came  lower  than  my  waist.  For  a  prosperous  forest 
tree,  we  must  look  below,  where  the  glen  was  crowded 
with  green  spires.  But  for  flowers  and  ravishing  per- 
fume, we  had  none  to  envy :  our  heap  of  road-metal  was 
thick  with  bloom,  like  a  hawthorn  in  the  front  of  June; 
our  red,  baking  angle  in  the  mountain,  a  laboratory  of 
poignant  scents.  It  was  an  endless  wonder  to  my  mind, 
as  I  dreamed  about  the  platform,  following  the  progress 
of  the  shadows,  where  the  madrona  with  its  leaves,  the 
azalea  and  calycanthus  with  their  blossoms,  could  find 
moisture  to  support  such  thick,  wet,  waxy  growths,  or 
the  bay  tree  collect  the  ingredients  of  its  perfume.  But 
there  they  all  grew  together,  healthy,  happy,  and  happy- 
making,  as  though  rooted  in  a  fathom  of  black  soil. 

Nor  was  it  only  vegetable  life  that  prospered.  We 
had,  indeed,  few  birds,  and  none  that  had  much  of  a 
voice  or  anything  worthy  to  be  called  a  song.  My  morn- 
ing comrade  had  a  thin  chirp,  unmusical  and  monoto- 
nous, but  friendly  and  pleasant  to  hear.  He  had  but  one 
rival :  a  fellow  with  an  ostentatious  cry  of  near  an  octave 
descending,  not  one  note  of  which  properly  followed 
another.  This  is  the  only  bird  I  ever  knew  with  a 
wrong  ear;  but  there  was  something  enthralling  about 
his  performance.  You  listened  and  listened,  thinking  each 
time  he  must  surely  get  it  right ;  but  no,  it  was  always 
wrong,  and  always  wrong  the  same  way.  Yet  he 
seemed  proud  of  his  song,  delivered  it  with  execution 
and  a  manner  of  his  own,  and  was  charming  to  his 
mate.  A  very  incorrect,  incessant  human  whistler  had 
thus  a  chance  of  knowing  how  his  own  music  pleased 
the  world.     Two  great  birds  —  eagles,  we  thought  — 

421 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

dwelt  at  the  top  of  the  canon,  among  the  crags  that 
were  printed  on  the  sky.  Now  and  again,  but  very 
rarely,  they  wheeled  high  over  our  heads  in  silence,  or 
with  a  distant,  dying  scream;  and  then,  with  a  fresh 
impulse,  winged  fleetly  forward,  dipped  over  a  hilltop, 
and  were  gone.  They  seemed  solemn  and  ancient 
things,  sailing  the  blue  air:  perhaps  coeval  with  the 
mountain  where  they  haunted,  perhaps  emigrants  from 
Rome,  where  the  glad  legions  may  have  shouted  to  be- 
hold them  on  the  morn  of  battle. 

But  if  birds  were  rare,  the  place  abounded  with  rattle- 
snakes — the  rattlesnakes'  nest,  it  might  have  been  named. 
Wherever  we  brushed  among  the  bushes,  our  passage 
woke  their  angry  buzz.  One  dwelt  habitually  in  the 
wood-pile,  and  sometimes,  when  we  came  for  firewood, 
thrust  up  his  small  head  between  two  logs,  and  hissed 
at  the  intrusion.  The  rattle  has  a  legendary  credit;  it  is 
said  to  be  awe-inspiring,  and,  once  heard,  to  stamp  it- 
self forever  in  the  memory.  But  the  sound  is  not  at  all 
alarming ;  the  hum  of  many  insects,  and  the  buzz  of  the 
wasp  convince  the  ear  of  danger  quite  as  readily.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we  lived  for  weeks  in  Silverado,  coming 
and  going,  with  rattles  sprung  on  every  side,  and  it 
never  occurred  to  us  to  be  afraid.  I  used  to  take  sun- 
baths  and  do  calisthenics  in  a  certain  pleasant  nook 
among  azalea  and  calycanthus,  the  rattles  whizzing  on 
every  side  like  spinning-wheels,  and  the  combined  hiss 
or  buzz  rising  louder  and  angrier  at  any  sudden  move- 
ment; but  I  was  never  in  the  least  impressed,  nor  ever 
attacked.  It  was  only  towards  the  end  of  our  stay,  that 
a  man  down  at  Calistoga,  who  was  expatiating  on  the 
terrifying  nature  of  the  sound,  gave  me  at  last  a  very  good 

422 


TOILS  AND   PLEASURES 

imitation;  and  it  burst  on  me  at  once  that  we  dwelt 
in  the  very  metropolis  of  deadly  snakes,  and  that  the  rat- 
tle was  simply  the  commonest  noise  in  Silverado.  Im- 
mediately on  our  return,  we  attacked  the  Hansons  on 
the  subject.  They  had  formerly  assured  us  that  our 
canon  was  favoured,  like  Ireland,  with  an  entire  im- 
munity from  poisonous  reptiles;  but,  with  the  perfect 
inconsequence  of  the  natural  man,  they  were  no  sooner 
found  out  than  they  went  off  at  score  in  the  contrary 
direction,  and  we  were  told  that  in  no  part  of  the  world 
did  rattlesnakes  attain  to  such  a  monstrous  bigness  as 
among  the  warm,  flower-dotted  rocks  of  Silverado. 
This  is  a  contribution  rather  to  the  natural  history  of 
the  Hansons,  than  to  that  of  snakes. 

One  person,  however,  better  served  by  his  instinct, 
had  known  the  rattle  from  the  first;  and  that  was  Chu- 
chu,  the  dog.  No  rational  creature  has  ever  led  an 
existence  more  poisoned  by  terror  than  that  dog's  at 
Silverado.  Every  whiz  of  the  rattle  made  him  bound. 
His  eyes  rolled;  he  trembled;  he  would  be  often  wet 
with  sweat.  One  of  our  great  mysteries  was  his  terror 
of  the  mountain.  A  little  away  above  our  nook,  the 
azaleas  and  almost  all  the  vegetation  ceased.  Dwarf 
pines  not  big  enough  to  be  Christmas  trees,  grew  thinly 
among  loose  stone  and  gravel  scaurs.  Here  and  there 
a  big  boulder  sat  quiescent  on  a  knoll,  having  paused 
there  till  the  next  rain  in  his  long  slide  down  the  moun- 
tain. There  was  here  no  ambuscade  for  the  snakes, 
you  could  see  clearly  where  you  trod;  and  yet  the 
higher  I  went,  the  more  abject  and  appealing  became 
Chuchu's  terror.  He  was  an  excellent  master  of  that 
composite  language  in  which  dogs  communicate  with 

423 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

men,  and  he  would  assure  me,  on  his  honour,  that  there 
was  some  peril  on  the  mountain ;  appeal  to  me,  by  all 
that  I  held  holy,  to  turn  back;  and  at  length,  finding  all 
was  in  vain,  and  that  I  still  persisted,  ignorantly  fool- 
hardy, he  would  suddenly  whip  round  and  make  a  bee- 
line  down  the  slope  for  Silverado,  the  gravel  showering 
after  him.  What  was  he  afraid  of?  There  were  ad- 
mittedly brown  bears  and  California  lions  on  the  moun- 
tain ;  and  a  grizzly  visited  Rufe's  poultry  yard  not  long 
before,  to  the  unspeakable  alarm  of  Caliban,  who  dashed 
out  to  chastise  the  intruder,  and  found  himself,  by  moon- 
light, face  to  face  with  such  a  tartar.  Something  at 
least  there  must  have  been:  some  hairy,  dangerous 
brute  lodged  permanently  among  the  rocks  a  little  to  the 
north-west  of  Silverado,  spending  his  summer  there- 
about, with  wife  and  family. 

And  there  was,  or  there  had  been,  another  animal. 
Once,  under  the  broad  daylight,  on  that  open  stony 
hillside,  where  the  baby  pines  were  growing,  scarcely 
tall  enough  to  be  a  badge  for  a  MacGregor's  bonnet,  I 
came  suddenly  upon  his  innocent  body,  lying  mummi- 
fied by  the  dry  air  and  sun :  a  pigmy  kangaroo.  I  am 
ingloriously  ignorant  of  these  subjects ;  had  never  heard 
of  such  a  beast ;  thought  myself  face  to  face  with  some 
incomparable  sport  of  nature  ;  and  began  to  cherish 
hopes  of  immortality  in  science.  Rarely  have  1  been 
conscious  of  a  stranger  thrill  than  when  I  raised  that 
singular  creature  from  the  stones,  dry  as  a  board,  his 
innocent  heart  long  quiet,  and  all  warm  with  sunshine. 
His  long  hind  legs  were  stiff,  his  tiny  forepaws  clutched 
upon  his  breast,  as  if  to  leap ;  his  poor  life  cut  short 
upon  that  mountain  by  some  unknown  accident.     But 

424 


TOILS  AND   PLEASURES 

the  kangaroo  rat,  it  proved,  was  no  such  unknown 
animal ;  and  my  discovery  was  nothing. 

Crickets  were  not  wanting.  I  thought  I  could  make 
out  exactly  four  of  them,  each  with  a  corner  of  his  own, 
who  used  to  make  night  musical  at  Silverado.  In  the 
matter  of  voice,  they  far  excelled  the  birds,  and  their 
ringing  whistle  sounded  from  rock  to  rock,  calling  and 
replying  the  same  thing,  as  in  a  meaningless  opera. 
Thus,  children  in  full  health  and  spirits  shout  together, 
to  the  dismay  of  neighbours;  and  their  idle,  happy, 
deafening  vociferations  rise  and  fall,  like  the  song  of  the 
crickets.  I  used  to  sit  at  night  on  the  platform,  and 
wonder  why  these  creatures  were  so  happy ;  and  what 
was  wrong  with  man  that  he  also  did  not  wind  up  his 
days  with  an  hour  or  two  of  shouting;  but  I  suspect 
that  all  long-lived  animals  are  solemn.  The  dogs  alone 
are  hardly  used  by  nature ;  and  it  seems  a  manifest  in- 
justice for  poor  Chuchu  to  die  in  his  teens,  after  a  life  so 
shadowed  and  troubled,  continually  shaken  with  alarm, 
and  the  tear  of  elegant  sentiment  permanently  in  his  eye. 

There  was  another  neighbour  of  ours  at  Silverado, 
small  but  very  active,  a  destructive  fellow.  This  was  a 
black,  ugly  fly — a  bore,  the  Hansons  called  him — who 
lived  by  hundreds  in  the  boarding  of  our  house.  He 
entered  by  a  round  hole,  more  neatly  pierced  than  a 
man  could  do  it  with  a  gimlet,  and  he  seems  to  have 
spent  his  life  in  cutting  out  the  interior  of  the  plank, 
but  whether  as  a  dwelling  or  a  store-house,  I  could 
never  find.  When  I  used  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning 
for  a  rest  —  we  had  no  easy-chairs  in  Silverado  —  I 
would  hear,  hour  after  hour,  the  sharp  cutting  sound  of 
his  labours,  and  from  time  to  time  a  dainty  shower  of 

425 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

sawdust  would  fall  upon  the  blankets.     There  lives  no 
more  industrious  creature  than  a  bore. 

And  now  that  I  have  named  to  the  reader  all  our 
animals  and  insects  without  exception  —  only  I  find  I 
have  forgotten  the  flies — he  will  be  able  to  appreciate 
the  singular  privacy  and  silence  of  our  days.  It  was 
not  only  man  who  was  excluded :  animals,  the  song  of 
birds,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  sheep,  clouds 
even,  and  the  variations  of  the  weather,  were  here  also 
wanting;  and  as,  day  after  day,  the  sky  was  one  dome 
of  blue,  and  the  pines  below  us  stood  motionless  in  the 
still  air,  so  the  hours  themselves  were  marked  out  from 
each  other  only  by  the  series  of  our  own  affairs,  and 
the  sun's  great  period  as  he  ranged  westward  through 
the  heavens.  The  two  birds  cackled  a  while  in  the  early 
morning ;  all  day  the  water  tinkled  in  the  shaft,  the  bores 
ground  sawdust  in  the  planking  of  our  crazy  palace — 
infinitesimal  sounds ;  and  it  was  only  with  the  return  of 
night  that  any  change  would  fall  on  our  surroundings,  or 
the  four  crickets  begin  to  flute  together  in  the  dark. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  hard  to  exaggerate  the  pleasure 
that  we  took  in  the  approach  of  evening.  Our  day  was 
not  very  long,  but  it  was  very  tiring.  To  trip  along  un- 
steady planks  or  wade  among  shifting  stones,  to  go  to 
and  fro  for  water,  to  clamber  down  the  glen  to  the  Toll 
House  after  meat  and  letters,  to  cook,  to  make  fires  and 
beds,  were  all  exhausting  to  the  body.  Life  out  of 
doors,  besides,  under  the  fierce  eye  of  day,  draws  largely 
on  the  animal  spirits.  There  are  certain  hours  in  the  af- 
ternoon when  a  man,  unless  he  is  in  strong  health  or  en- 
joys a  vacant  mind,  would  rather  creep  into  a  cool  cor- 
ner of  a  house  and  sit  upon  the  chairs  of  civilization. 

426 


TOILS  AND   PLEASURES 

About  that  time,  the  sharp  stones,  the  planks,  the  up- 
turned boxes  of  Silverado,  began  to  grow  irksome  to 
my  body ;  1  set  out  on  that  hopeless,  never-ending  quest 
for  a  more  comfortable  posture ;  I  would  be  fevered  and 
weary  of  the  staring  sun ;  and  just  then  he  would  begin 
courteously  to  withdraw  his  countenance,  the  shadows 
lengthened,  the  aromatic  airs  awoke,  and  an  indescri- 
bable but  happy  change  announced  the  coming  of  the 
night. 

The  hours  of  evening,  when  we  were  once  curtained 
in  the  friendly  dark,  sped  lightly.  Even  as  with  the 
crickets,  night  brought  to  us  a  certain  spirit  of  rejoicing. 
It  was  good  to  taste  the  air;  good  to  mark  the  dawning 
of  the  stars,  as  they  increased  their  glittering  company; 
good,  too,  to  gather  stones,  and  send  them  crashing 
down  the  chute,  a  wave  of  light.  It  seemed,  in  some 
way,  the  reward  and  the  fulfilment  of  the  day.  So  it  is 
when  men  dwell  in  the  open  air;  it  is  one  of  the  simple 
pleasures  that  we  lose  by  living  cribbed  and  covered  in 
a  house,  that,  though  the  coming  of  the  day  is  still  the 
most  inspiriting,  yet  day's  departure,  also,  and  the  return 
of  night  refresh,  renew,  and  quiet  us ;  and  in  the  pas- 
tures of  the  dusk  we  stand,  like  cattle,  exulting  in  the 
absence  of  the  load. 

Our  nights  were  never  cold,  and  they  were  always 
still,  but  for  one  remarkable  exception.  Regularly,  about 
nine  o'clock,  a  warm  wind  sprang  up,  and  blew  for  ten 
minutes,  or  maybe  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  right  down 
the  canon,  fanning  it  well  out,  airing  it  as  a  mother 
airs  the  night  nursery  before  the  children  sleep.  As  far 
as  I  could  judge,  in  the  clear  darkness  of  the  night,  this 
wind  was  purely  local :  perhaps  dependent  on  the  con- 

427 


THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 

figuration  of  the  glen.  At  least,  it  was  very  welcome  to 
the  hot  and  weary  squatters ;  and  if  we  were  not  abed 
already,  the  springing  up  of  this  lilliputian  valley-wind 
would  often  be  our  signal  to  retire. 

I  was  the  last  to  go  to  bed,  as  I  was  still  the  first  to 
rise.  Many  a  night  I  have  strolled  about  the  platform, 
taking  a  bath  of  darkness  before  I  slept.  The  rest  would 
be  in  bed,  and  even  from  the  forge  I  could  hear  them 
talking  together  from  bunk  to  bunk.  A  single  candle 
in  the  neck  of  a  pint  bottle  was  their  only  illumination ; 
and  yet  the  old  cracked  house  seemed  literally  bursting 
with  the  light.  It  shone  keen  as  a  knife  through  all  the 
vertical  chinks;  it  struck  upward  through  the  broken 
shingles ;  and  through  the  eastern  door  and  window,  it 
fell  in  a  great  splash  upon  the  thicket  and  the  over- 
hanging rock.  You  would  have  said  a  conflagration, 
or  at  the  least  a  roaring  forge ;  and  behold,  it  was  but 
a  candle.  Or  perhaps  it  was  yet  more  strange  to  see 
the  procession  moving  bedwards  round  the  corner  of 
the  house,  and  up  the  plank  that  brought  us  to  the  bed- 
room door;  under  the  immense  spread  of  the  starry 
heavens,  down  in  a  crevice  of  the  giant  mountain,  these 
few  human  shapes,  with  their  unshielded  taper,  made 
so  disproportionate  a  figure  in  the  eye  and  mind.  But 
the  more  he  is  alone  with  nature,  the  greater  man  and 
his  doings  bulk  in  the  consideration  of  his  fellow-men. 
Miles  and  miles  away  upon  the  opposite  hilltops,  if  there 
were  any  hunter  belated  or  any  traveller  who  had  lost 
his  way,  he  must  have  stood,  and  watched  and  won- 
dered, from  the  time  the  candle  issued  from  the  door  of 
the  assayer's  office  till  it  had  mounted  the  plank  and 
disappeared  again  into  the  miners'  dormitory. 

428 


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